Black Birds

My life is full of poisonous birds,

black as sin, black as pitch,

that lurk in the branches of skeletal trees.

They descend upon me, en mass, these black birds,

and rip and tear at me,

my face, my hair, my clothes,

with their black razor beaks and claws.

I wave my arms about my face, 

shouting and swearing,

head bent low as I run for cover.

The birds follow.

I take refuge indoors, 

peering through paper-thin glass panes,

peering at the birds,

watching me watch them.

They sit in black lines along tree limbs

and power lines and the tops of fences.

The black birds sit and watch and wait,

sharpening their beaks and claws.

My life is full of poisonous black birds,

black as sin, black as pitch,

waiting for me to step outside.