extremophiles

I can’t forget the morning in which I first heard the cawing. Black hackles rising; I know it’s true. I can tell what will happen before my eyes even close. They crash against the house. I wish there was something to do here: a poison berry, a bolt of lightning. No demand is made on me: I listen and keep track. I count a hundred crows, perched on a thousand telephone lines, a million misplaced feathers.

There they are. A beady eye, the passerine, echoed in discreet units. I pull the curtains. I pull at my hair. If I went outside; would they kill the lamb? There is only plucking, smoothing and bending twigs and grass stems. Nothing to be afraid of. The sound of branches breaking, cracking: broken bones. Here is another reference to the dark. Here is fowl void, inky, ruffled, velvet. Scavenging.

Bad human. They seem to be saying.

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