The crow was back.
His beady eyes alert as ever,
head – strangely bald, feathers
pulled by some other bird perhaps –
cocked to one side, the other: ever
moving to keep her in sight.
A hop forward and he leaps
into air, wings spread, claws
having touched unaware the toad,
bulbous body – a bloated face –
whose mouth opens wide
its trademark belch.
There they were, the pair
united in their particular brand of
She sets down her fork, appetite
quite destroyed by this vision
beyond the kitchen glass.
Crow’s shiny pate taunts her
yet; toad’s bulk enacts a grotesque
expansion of its form to mold, settle
into the mud on which they wait
She sips her coffee: even
that seems corrupted by their presence.
Who knew beasts could be
such a persistent menace?