Tonight, magpies are on one with the starlings.
Dusk is noisy, battered by self-righteous
claims to air. Trees support them all.
Blackbirds scatter thoughts, wild chaotic dreams.
It will be dawn before I’m done with all the hate,
collisions between light and dark shading
into one disgusting mess of crazy bird shit sticking
to my ribs, tongue coated with the startling aftermath.
Waking is a tangled glitch of sheets wound round
and through the echoes of birdsong.
Sometimes it makes sense but mostly I am lost
while robins tug my hair to remember.
*art: Diana Turner