This world's end

Harsh frost, heavy mist, ivy under snow, so pretty. Only shapes beyond the gate are gulls spilling out of the white sky over the gate. There's a tiger in the sunset, a moonrise clear and blue, and our garden is full of frozen poultry. OK, they're not frozen yet, but the whole garden has the look of a hospice for desperate avian tramps; I never feed the birds because our neighbour puts loads out for them, and her dog keeps our cats out, so why the brainless chirpers are ignoring her efforts and hanging out en masse in the haunt of their local serial killers beats me.

It cannot be left though. I'll dash out and buy birdfood, and try to keep the cats in. They have more sense than their victims, they just watch and chatter excitedly while staying in the warm. Come to think of it, they have more sense than me.

Amended to add So now I have braved the cold and bought some hanging thing full of birdy banquet. Naturally, not one of the feathered imbeciles is going near it.