Then, when the birds had come and gone,
she smiled wanly
and put it away-
the old dreams, the old ways.

She gathered them in a bunch
and tied the knot
exclaiming
“It is finished.”

Slowly, life returns,
resumes patterns;
Known days and known ways
in familiar terrain.

Slowly, the winter breaks
and thaws;
The heart grows roots,
and finds comfort in staid days.

On some days though
there is a strange visitation-
the sky darkens,
the sun is shut.

And the birds,
they confer
around the corpse
in sibilant whispers.

Run, run from the birds
before they pick you out.
Run, run when you see the birds
gathering in the sky.

Run, run lest you fly with them-
just a black, black bird
hovering in the sky.
Run.