The birds had had enough of singing
about their territorial
disputes; they yearned to write their thoughts.
After the snow which fell one night,
a sheet of white stretched out across
the surface of the silent garden.
A robin broke the stillness with
a carefully constructed haiku
about the suffering of robins.
A sparrow wrote a manifesto
entitled Death to All
the Cats;
a chaffinch offered her critique.
A thrush composed some smutty jokes
on nominative
determinism
and signed off with I’m
here all week.
The rain soon fell and covered all
their little works with wet full-stops,
the fate which will befall all writing.
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