You know that feeling,
y’know, the one?
when fingers (though, not quite)
dust down your spine
frigid,
with that sort of delayed shock
that leaves you in screams and coils
only after it’s happened
the sense of presence behind you,
or perhaps above,
or below
well-
notably somewhere
just out of your periphery
speeding up your heartbeat,
speeding up your nerves,
till you twitch and twitch and twitch
Over nothing at all
like a spider with its legs in the air,
or spindling branches on a dead tree,
rigid taunt and snapping with the weight of those
Creatures
hanging from each limb
limbs…
because, by God,
what trees drip with anything that dark?
and look at your reflection in the pooling
distorted, or perhaps glaringly honest
about what you are
the birds do need something to peck away at,
After all
the birds and the cold tendrils of fingers,
and you
their favorite little guy to greet
Remember Them
next time you go outside
‘cause they certainly remember you
and they can’t wait to see you Again
