The Crow on the Tree

Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw.
The crow has moved places now—
It is in the tree opposite the light post,
And it is still mocking the racers
Which skim the fresh cotton-candy powder
Below its perch in the oak.

It's a rather aloof crow.

It fluffs its feathers, turns its beady eyes toward me
As I sit upon the chairlift, watching its plumage
Glisten in the early morning sun, and it says,
"Caw! I am the one
Who sits in the oak tree,
Who determines whether
You get a branch or a twig dropped upon you
As you wheel down the trail!"

Now, it's not wrong that it does have control over this.

However, the crow is rather small for its size
Despite having a large beak,
And it couldn't drop a twig upon a skier
If it jumped as high as it possibly could.
But, between you and me—
Don't tell the crow that,
Because then it'll be sad with its lonely existence upon the tree
And there will be nobody
To try and shake down the twigs.