A lyrebird by Michael Farrell
A lyrebird Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash. All genres are destroyed at last. History, mistakes, swallowed up in a nominal grub. The slow wild alcoholics of the nineteenth dare make no reply. I tip my beak to the sky. A nest-building lament starts up. It's humans taking up too much room. Swift-footed it stops behind a mountain ash. The enclosed imagination buys a hunting