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.
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