Please do not send us a poem about birds.
We have no interest in the chattering
of starlings flying over the burned field
or the charm of finches that light
into your garden every morning.
We don’t give two hoots about rooks
in a clamour, nighthawk kettles, wren
herds, magpies in a tiding or knobs
of widgeons and flights of pigeons.
We could care less that a congress
of ravens is called an unkindness
or for your poem about two unkind
ravens quarrelling on a telephone line
stretched in front of the sea. Speaking
of sea, please don’t send us poems
about colonies of gulls or heron.
Especially no blue heron poems,
the world has too many already.
Don’t sneak a heron into your pond poem,
already flush with mallards and paddling ducks.
God knows the world needs another
nightingale poem, but call us old fashioned,
we’ll stick with Keats. We love
the odd peacock sighting, but maybe
just a feather will do. Please refrain
from ostentation. Don’t brood on pheasants
or exalt the lark or pity the turtle dove
or murder the crow. No sermonizing
on congregations of plovers or convocations
of eagles. No parliamentary oratory on owls.
If you do send us a bird poem, it better be good.
About the Author: Heidi Seaborn lives in Seattle with her unruly garden, handy husband and a lab named Fetch. Since she started writing a year ago, her poetry has appeared in Into the Void, Gold Man Review, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Carbon Culture Review, several anthologies, in a chapbook of her political poems Body Politic published by Mount Analogue Press, on a Seattle bus and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter here.