there she is on top of the ashen tree clacking away encroaching upon the mid inky night air

moon veiled like Italian black lace and stars tinier than usual so far so far away

her feathers drenched ebony widow’s gown bereft of her heart’s departed master me thinks i named her Lilith

perhaps she asks for the blackberries in the shallow gainsboro painted stoneware plate two inches from the window with the opened livid curtains

more troubling yet she reads my murky thoughts of Aqua Man playing Chopin on the piccolo dressed like Elvis with sequined fish tail

needless to say under my breath could she be the harbinger of death yet the polish from my nails flaked from the day’s excruciating angst