Sitting on his flowered bough he
suddenly falls - not like a thunderbolt but
like a stone
beneath the icy river.
Three ageless seconds and then
he erupts skyward, life
held up in his sharp beak.
Yay, bonus poem! You get this on the same day because it's just a little thing I wrote while my professor was talking about "The Waste Land" (so it's a bit modernist-influenced, don't you think? Has that Imagist thing going?) and because it's pretty much exactly the same as every poem I have ever written.
Oh, and obsession status: a few days ago I realized I was sometimes forgetting about it for hours at a time. So I looked at some pictures and such and I'm better now.
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