Unserious postmodern paintings.

The wagtail had flown in through the window seeking crumbs, found none, and decided to wait. It had been waiting for three…

The tailorbird had spent three weeks stitching its nest from discarded threads, each knot tied with the solemnity of a vow, each…

The warthog had been immortal for 317 years, though it never bothered to mention it. It came to the library every Tuesday…

The waterthrush had been searching for insects when it noticed the seed. Not because it was hungry, but because it had never…

The bird had been waiting for someone to press the 'E' key for seventeen years. It remembered the rhythm of fingers, the…

They had not moved in seventeen hours, not since the last notification pinged—a cryptic thread about migratory patterns of urban pigeons that…

The tarpon had been floating there for seventeen days, according to the logbook nailed crookedly beside the door — though no one…

The shrike had been found by the homeowner tucked inside a roll of shelf liner, dazed but unharmed, and rather than release…

The guan had spent three days rehearsing its humility before the mirror, practicing how to look small without seeming to try. When…

The damselfly had been gently catastrophic for precisely seventeen minutes — not enough to break the cup, nor to alarm the houseplant,…

The mule had been reliable for exactly three Tuesdays in a row, which was unusual enough to warrant a note nailed to…

The widowbird had been waiting for the kettle to whistle for seventeen minutes, though it had long since stopped. It did not…