Portents x 2

You said it didn’t mean anything
That bent beak as skewed as ill-used classroom scissors

One closed eye – one staring

That can’t count for nothing

Not when there’s a next time
Thudding like sodden wool hurled with motive –  not startling now

An unfamiliar sound made commonplace by what you call coincidence

Dismissing speeding plumage colliding with glass

You were mistaken
Those birds, feathered portents, were flying to me

Only the windows got in the way

Poems

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