“Write from the point of view of a birdcage whos occupant just died”:
The water would go on dripping, and the tube had a misty fogginess to it. Normally the water would evaporate, disappear, but this just kept dripping. Nothing to consume it, no pointy beak to sip it up, causing my cardboard covering to go wet and damp, leaving a cold feeling to it all. No nibbling, scratching, flattering sounds. My hole was open and the only visitors were the busy ants stopping by to drink and eat the remains. Empty, with no use I sat there missing him. The mornings were filled with silence – no sounds of him singing at the break of dawn, or flattering his pink and yellow feathers when the sunshine came in. He died yesterday.