The Burning Bush 2, issue five, June 2013
Gréagóir Ó Dúill Dawn Birds For Alfred J. Hitchcock
Night ebbs to a limewash lie, warm duvet of sleep and its memories slip down to the floor. Hooded crows rap my window with imperious caw, with a hate I cannot fathom. There is no reason in this. I lie there, try to understand, put some parts together, co-ordinate response - catapult, poison, needles pushed in window frame – all tried before (this is not their first campaign), all failing. How can I hold to some semblance of my sanity as their smears opaque my window with their slime – spit, faeces, semen or is it blood? They go on some crow message in their smart black shirts, leave me, failed scarecrow lying there, checking my responses, physical, emotional. Then comes low, below my radar, belling nightmare call the owl.
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