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
Jemima Laing 