My first inkling was a sound of wings,
Heavy, beating the air so close by that I ducked,
Afraid that dragons might be searching.

But it was only a crow, one sole sleek
Messenger flying low so as to whisper
With its wings.  Whisperings.  Of what?

Then a delicate tick, tick, tick.  What is that?
Time to flee, it said.  Time to turn and run.

Then it grew dark and loud -- a crowd
Of raucous birds, red splashes on jetblack wings
Like chevrons, epaulettes on minions in the sky,
All screaming a single mantra, *Why? Why? Why?*

And then a ping, like the string of a guitar
Strung too tight, and I felt a sting in my
Leg and fell, too late. Too late to turn back now.