Silver sheen on lampblack feathers
Turn one eye, then two,
Hiding self-sown secrets.
The handle slips from reluctant fingers
I step out, expecting
A hunting-stoop in crisp hoarfrost air.
Bright-eyed stillness. Poised. Mocking.
I turn my back,
My collar up against the cold croaking gossip
My feet fumbling to get ahead of themselves
All the while I can feel their attention rapt
as a gaoler’s grip in the crux of an arm;
Hard as sleet
and pinching the bone.
As one, they tear from the trees
and begin to circle.
Barry King lived in several countries around the world until settling in his spouse’s home town of Kingston, Ontario and converting to Canadianism. He writes fiction and poetry, and moonlights as Web director for ChiZine Publications.
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