Fatalism Poem by Neil Crawford

Observe the night's mad birds,
see how their wings slice
the cold, crisp, cellophane air.

Feathers conceal deceptive strength
and well honed
survival skills.

They will outlive me,
when I am long gone,
their day's pattern will go unchanged.

Undeterred by my unwitnessed passing,
they will grace the same
avenues and squares.

Recall the mad night's birds
and how they coaxed
the fool to write.

His pen dipped in invisible ink
borrowed words fading
on a crumpled page.