I drag the curtain across the creaking pole and grimace at the indigo taint
that means the day has started.
But where the plumptious pigeon usually sits in the cleft of a stunted branch
squats a hunched buzzard.
I drill the ancient glass with my fist. He slowly turns his head, blinks and clatters up
and over the oaks.
The rooks erupt and screech and squall.