The blackbirds are too many now
and fierce today. Even though
I hurried to hang the laundry on the line
before the sun came up, I was too slow.
Once the first one spotted me, I heard him caw
alert the rest that I was outdoors, and I could hear
their chatter build, could feel the wind come pulsing
from the flap of those collective beating wings.
Hurrying, I slipped and fell
as they swooped down on me, a jet mass
jerking at my hair and choking out the sun,
assaulting me with their strong, sharp beaks.
I reared to my feet, slapping them away
with my muscular hands built strong for killing,
and I ran for the house, slammed the door
against their deafening clamor.
It’s madness when they’re in mating season,
hard to keep them from finding me
to tear away the hair they prize for nests,
above all else, so addicted to my soft strands.
I must keep moving; staying in one place
too long allows the flocks to find me easily,
gather in greater numbers than I can cull,
so I’m forced to pack and get moving.
But first I’ll need another twenty-four
to make my pie, for none tastes rarer
nor nourishes better the fine, silk hair
those birds must have from me.
This slaughter angers them,
but they’ll not ever kill me,
my coveted hair, fed by their flesh,
the essence of their nesting bed desire.
Lanning Lee 