In Which Peter Greenaway Is Lauded As A Prophet Of Sorts

'Tis Bird-Fall Day, a Violent Unknown
Event occurring world-wide. Faugh! Who could
Predict a thing as vile as this? Who's shown
Such Perspicacity? Well, there is good,
Compelling evidence that someone did.
Somewhere my Allow dictionary waits;
Though Curdine is the one which, were I bid
To choose a language, I would plump for. Fates
Are rarely that kind, though -- and I suspect
That really, what's occurred, a mere backfire
Of efforts undertaken to prevent
A Greenaway-an Uzumaki gyre
Of strange events. We nearly were transformed.
And nobody could say we weren't warned.

BONUS SONNET: In Which Springtime Proves Painful For Some

When springtime comes, a young male bird can think
Of just one thing, and when he finds her, lo:
There is no challenge from which he will shrink!
As Frank Roche this day proved. He filmed a show
Of fierceness through his windows, which reflect
A cardinal back to himself and pose
A threat to his new courtship. Ere it's wrecked
The bird attacks, delivers many blows
To the offending panes, oblivious
To how it feels, that thud against the glass.
His lady's watching, after all, and thus
He must prevail, lest she give him a pass
And give of her affections to his twin.
A grave predicament, yes, to be in!

In Which Are Considered Ninja Robins

My good friend Travis King today revealed
A secret -- and not even on Formspring
(I'm on there, too, right here) that for his shield
And for his loved ones, too, he likes to sling
An unexpected battery of -- no,
Not Spanish Inquisition types -- rare birds:
Some hardcore, kickass, ninja-skilled (although
Innocuous to look at) robins. Words
Cannot convey my shock and my delight!
He hath commanded one, Beverly fair,
To watch o'er me and keep me, day and night,
From harm. To be the object of such care
Is no mean thing! I'm safer now, by far,
Than many a much-coddled movie star!

In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow

The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down

And buried sometime during last night's blow.

I'm sure it's much the same all over town.

My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,

My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried

To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care

That people try to do their jobs despite

Conditions. They were pitiful enough,

My efforts; I could not sustain too much,

Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,

Laborious removal of, as such

A day's and night's accumulation. I'm

Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.

In Which I Watch A Strange Convention From The Sidelines (And No, It Is Not Bacon-Con)

I really just don't understand the birds!

Cheyenne's entire population of

American Tree sparrows, or two-thirds

Of it at least, are, for all love,

Now congregated tight in my backyard.

What's drawn them here to me? I cannot guess.

I simply watch them hopping, jostling hard

Against each other in the grass -- unless

The brand-new chilliness has caused

A mass die-off of insects? Winter's change

Makes these birds switch from bugs to seeds. I've paused

Now in this writing because something strange

Just happened: they've all flown up to my fence,

Then flown back to my lawn again. What sense?

In Which I Enjoy My Easily Amused Birdie Brain

American Tree Sparrows like to hang

Around the cheap tube feeder just outside

My window, and they, too, like to harangue

Me when the feeder's empty, though they hide

When I come out to fill it. Once a day

At least, I find they've eaten all, or spilled

The seed I've  poured inside it. I obey

Their shrill demands, because I'm really thrilled

To watch them so cavort where I can see

Them at their birdie doings all day long.

I know the show they put on's not for me

Expressly, but I ask you, what is wrong

With staring out my window, oh, for hours?

When spring comes then I'll also watch the flow'rs.