You who were eager to see a world wrought
with a yellow sun and bulging gray clouds.
Attracted by false heralds of moonlight
cawing below your nest, the de.si.re
must have managed to whistle its way up
into your nest and climbed into your chest.
Note by note and twig by twig - blue Mynie -
a de-feathered blue chickie whose only
vision of warmth is the darkness under
the pelting red roof. Your soon-to-be-brown
feathers barely pricking out of your skin
when the intrigue of the noises were too much for you.
Or was it a suicide - knowing you'll turn out
to be no more than another scavenger,
welcomed only as a distraction for
a non-existent spring time - when you jumped
off the air-con ventilator?
You looked like a watercolour painting
when I found you. Pale blue on pale grey tiles
against the pale grey sky against dried brown
sticks against fallen green leaves. But you were
starting to stink as the ants filed into
you, oozing out a yellow bile. O You
nature of creature, you have painted the
colours of the early spring sky with your death.