Whooos to Blame

A far reaching mess

this splatter of owl -

a long-handled squeegee

and of course paper towel,

Both smeary and gooey

and without any bleach -

I tried wiping off

what I thought was a Screech,

A flurry of feathers 

still danced from the hit

while wee bits of carcass

weren’t budging a bit,

The crack in my windshield

I’m sure wouldn’t leak –

for plugging the hole

was a cute little beak.

 No birds were harmed in the making of

this lame and pathetic poem.

My reputation, however, may not clean up

so easily.