The Hawk and the Nightingale, Edit

You think your poems are something special? Have I got a story for you, then.

So there’s this nightingale sitting way up in an oak tree. Big eyes, red neck, warbling away. But then there’s this hawk, right? With big shiny claws and a baddd attitude. He’s zooming around overhead, real stealth like, when he hears the faintest traces of a melody. At this, his heart starts to thump a little faster. He swoops down for a closer looksee. And there she is, a mouthwatering morsel of a bird, songing her song. No sooner than he’s got her in his sights than his claws are digging into her pretty red neck. Mid-note, that tree is history.

Now the nightingale has a pretty good idea of what’s about to happen – lunch – and it’s not looking like she’s going to be the guest of honor. Stuck as she is in the middle of the air, the poor girl does the only thing she can. She begs. “Please, mister hawk, won’t you let me go? A bigger bird than me would taste as good, more filling, too. Just let me down, I’ll show you where to find one.” She’s crying a little as she says this, getting wet all down her neck. And normally the hawk wouldn’t say anything, but the whole scene is too goddamn pitiful. “Stop your whinging!” he screeches. “You’re headed my way, whether you like it or not.”

Now I’m not going to say whether the hawk eats the nightingale or not, and I’m not going to say why I even like this fable. The point is, he can, and I do. And your poems won’t make a hoot of a difference.