What Can We Do

A feathered clutch once bewailed – What can a sparrow do in a sky full of raptors? The red-necked puckers’ won’t arrive until blood smells like copper pennies. She was only one winter old, cried a fuss-bucket booby. Begone crone. croaked a plumed strutter. A fish needs a fish for its supper, little girls should not roam far from their nests. One bold worm spoke forth before the lollers and gawkers. She ate only half of me before the hawkish lout knocked her out. Now I must bury us both. Fellow travelers, both the peckish and the pecked, we all belong to this green turning morgue. All must ride the sky-wagons where last breaths are turned to rainclouds. What can we do? Sobbed a brimful of hatchlings. O what can we do? Boohoo, boohoo, boohoo.