A cold trickle of fear tickles behind the ear.
Sickle moon strewn sky, June or July.
Light, but only slightly. Might be hot as 90 Fahrenheit.
Frightfully quiet night, and yet despite sightings that entail;
A bushy tail in the bushes, bloody entrails left to bake in the sun.
Some reports of ripped up rodents,
And PSA’s about P’s* gettin’ slayed.
They insist on assisting in their own assassination.
Asinine comments like,
“You can’t go anywhere these days.”
Don’t worry, our killer only goes for birds with brains.
Soft juicy brains.
* P’s here refers to pigeons.