The Picnic Table War

Apple pie falls from the sky, shakes the ground around
Bits of apple tumble out, ready to be found
A soft breeze blows, passing by and shifts direction
From the grass, where pie fell, to a far location

Deep inside a mountain, there begins a stirring
Small shapes move, up outside, ready for a finding
The first arrives at the crust, grabs a massive load
Fifty times its weight, it moves down a scented road

From where it fell, to far away, to a brand new home
Piece by piece the pie moves by, buried in the loam
More arrive, retrace their steps, ready for some fun
The second run, things change, as many move as one

First to get, was first to go, first to start again
Triple strong scent leads the way, there and back again
Piece by piece pie disappears, in an earthen vault
When a shadow marks the ground, the line doesn't halt

Perched on the picnic table far above, the bird's menacing gaze watches. Seeing riches flowing by, it moves - a darkling shadow blotting out the light for those below. Hitting the ground, the impact knocks the scuttling shapes about. A beak darts out and separates apple and crust. Bits and pieces fly in all directions. When the big bits are gone, the beak darts out, for every other crumb. The broken, dark, and moving line keeps going, but the buffet doesn't get away. In remorseless syncopation, as the beak darts forth, bit by bit, holes open in the line. Soon all that's left is a scattered mess, and small shapes fleeing in all directions. In anger at some unknown violation, the bird lashes out, and casts down a tiny mountain. Its domination complete, the bird moves on, to search out wealth it in other realms it can swoop down and snatch away.

A lone dark shape, fearing death, runs far out away
Along the scent, strong with fear, others come that way
Darkness comes, sun comes up, the new day like before
Once more pie falls from the sky - they begin once more