Goodo.

Goodo.

Or it may be something else entirely.

There are no birds today

Nothing in the air

Or resting on a wire

Swapping hard luck stories

Or discussing the science

Behind the improbability

Of a Pelican’s flight

There are no love birds

Waiting for the day

They wake up to an empty nest

When they are faced

With a choice to start over

Or go their separate ways

There are no Magpies

No butterflies

Or Cicada song

Even the pigeons

On the roof next door

Have bustled under the eaves

To bill and coo

In the privacy of their own home

There is nothing to see

But a tumble of grey

Billowing down

From a jumble of cloud

To the muddy ground

And nothing at all in the air

But the slice and dice

Of hard rain

On the window pane