Black Birds

Black birds – Jackdaws – in my garden right now. Huge, menacing, with clear-cut eyes and intense purpose. All of six feet from the window against where my desk sits in jumbled keyboards and empty pill packets and random scribbled notes to self – a tower of hope in all of this.

My eighty five year old neighbour keeps peeking across the gaps in my high fence from time to time because I shouted, no…screamed, abuse at a guy down the road with a barking dog the other day. I feel so ashamed now because the only thing that’s changed is my reluctance to confront anyone to say my piece, or apologise. And I should really apologise.

But I am currently unwell. My Psychotherapist is worried and has tipped off my CPN and Psychiatrist. They are the triumvirate who oversee the current state of play around here in the wet garden where these fucking black birds are eating everything and making the little birds shriek in terror.

Terror is not far away right now. I saw Bigfoot again two evenings ago, peering guardedly through the low trees at the back of my home. Anyone with half an idea of what that means is listening now. He is a guide – a warning sign of my current state. Bigfoot: Paranoia herald, busted up and dirty bringer of symptomatic realisation. We’re not close, but he knows when this is going to happen every time. Morbid curiousity brings him out in dappled sunlight where the others can’t see him and where his eyes can’t be caught by the unwary. He is friend and enemy.

The black birds hover and gather. Enemy agents or unfriendly spirits. They have come to watch the show through the two hundred year old glass in my windows. They have always been around, waiting. Scaly clawed. Pulling the strings out there in the thick atmosphere.

The morning sun is up. All will be well. Trust me.

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