Feathers flared, like kings they glide,

Murderk sneers, but what’s inside?

Heart’s all mush, a thing to hide.

They spot the squirrel, stiff and grey,

“There’s lunch,” Mouthy starts to say,

Till it _twitched_—like life’s replay.

“Big squirrel—hit me. That’s the deal.

I’m roadkill now, what’s the feel?

Murderk, come, let’s make this real.”

Murderk blinks—this _talking_ meat?

Squirrel’s calm, so bittersweet.

Mouthy grins, “Ain’t death neat?”

“Big squirrel’s cool—I’m good, you see.

Forgive it now, set me free.

Acorns wait for fools like me.”

Mouthy snorts, his beak askew,

“No nuts, no patch. No sky of blue.

When you’re toast, you’re toast—our stew.”

Squirrel grins, half gone, half there,

“You see what you believe—take care.”

Murderk coughs, pretending air.

“Mouthy, faith’s the hardest bite,

We eat our friends, it don’t feel right,

But hope? _That_ lets us sleep at night.”

Twist of wings, they leave the dead,

Murderk shakes his heavy head,

Wants to dream of acorns instead.