THERMALS…

Not the kind we wear,

To warm our hides,

But the kind in the skies,

Too float as on a sea,

Is to soar on the thermals.

Turkey buzzard or chicken hawk,

Hunting for prey,

Little mice and rodents should pray,

A dinner meal they do not become.

When they soar above,

Wings stretched out some six feet,

Rodents need to beat feet,

Back to their burrow,

And be quiet about it,

As they not only hunt with their eyes,

But it is the ears they must fear,

For that is how they hunt, so clear…   (ed)