If I wrote my will
I'd leave everything I have
to a magpie,
they have a beautiful intelligence
something rarely seen
in any kind of species.

Of course this little bird
doesn't know
this old moss for much,
I am green,
clashing against
our wooden encagements.

A silent observer
to their fluttery exuberance
where it is impossible to tell
the crescendo of wind
from the absence
of feeling.

overwhelmed by longing
unable to fly
blurred beyond recognition
no longer watching

love you not
love me not
it is here
the will is written
please take it all.

Should you see a wet-looking bird,  
Pecking outside your window pane,    
You can easily make a guess,  
He wants to get in from the rain.  

Go and open the window wide,  
And let the feathered fellow in,  
Then you can give him some dry crumbs    
And corn bits on a plate of tin.  

This simple act of kindliness,  
And seeing him picking his food,    
Will have you more than satisfied,  
And leave you feeling very good.  

And the wet bird that cannot speak,  
Will no longer be feeling weak.

I wish I were a bird
Though not just to fly
But to be void of troubles
That is why

on the rooftop
a crow speaks
of a drum

The pail hurriedly fills to its brim
From a gushing river, pure and deep.
Unsullied by the chrysanthemums and lilies
Which encircle the babbling brook.

‘Almost full!’ proclaims the Lark
Perched atop an aged oak,
As the wet trickles down the bail,
‘Soon, soon, soon’ he sings his song.

Down flutters the Owl with a hoot,
‘What say you, Lark?’
‘With your songs so sweet and pail bursting,’
Feathered talons grasp the neighbouring birch.

The tinkling warble resumes,
‘Not yet full!’ the Lark weeps,
In a melodic trill.
‘Still. More must be filled.’

Amidst the river stones and collapsed trunks,
The pail sits, engulfed in the serene.
O'er the vessel the Owl hovers,
As talons clutch the sopping bail.

Suddenly, the jaws separate, delivering a soft hoot;
‘To be bursting is no more complete than to be hollow’,
Warns the venerable Owl with its warm,
Serrated feathers surrounding its pale face.

‘Well, when shall I quit?’ asks the Lark in a daze,
Raising its beak to the Heavens.

‘You shan’t quit. For we all strive to be full.’
Asserts the Owl, bathed in divine light,
‘The water shall forever drip in this stream, as it shall drip in you.’
As he ascends in a flurry, the pail too flies,
Splashing upon the adjacent foliage,

Now it rests
    Neither full nor empty.