The crows cry out from inside,
wings poised and glistening oil-black.
In the corner I try not to hide.

Wings poised and glistening oil-black,
they snaffle their feathers and croak.
I lean out of reach of their snaps.

They snaffle their feathers and croak,
damp whispers escaping their beaks.
A dry mist coils round in my throat.

Damp whispers escaping their beaks,
like shadows of chattering knives,
that slash and sting, slick on my cheek

Like shadows of chattering knives,
the crows cry out from inside.