Thieving magpies of the full
Monty moon,
Shrieks of “ego” through the golden trees
Soiled to inky black,
The catbird’s open finally
To the thought of compromise,
She gets the forest must be lit
But insists it must stay dark.
The dove doesn’t have the heart to disagree
Publically, for he’s afraid
Once he tastes the blood he won’t
Stop until he’s drank it all.
The sparrow says all feather work goes through her
As their self-appointed keeper
But she flies from every conflict,
From the glare of minutiae.
The blue jay’s thoughts are sloppy
As if they are his feelings
And his feelings are pure selfishness
As if they are his thoughts.
The raven comes to realize, a semi-click too late
That one of the challenges of being smart
Is knowing you have to surrender eventually
To idiots.
The finch just whistles and looks pretty
Says the secret to survival
Is losing every battle, to fluff up all the victors
To be sacrificed in the war.
It’s a night where everything you do
Reveals itself as useless
Done for the sole purpose
Of pretending there’s consensus.
It’s the kind of night where the truth
Reveals its hidden dangers,
Where everyone has their say, in an icy
Professional way
So the end is guaranteed before the first cool vent of blood.
