Tucked into bed beneath England sheets.
The walls tremor, I part curtains silently.
Shrieks from the sky, darkness light,
but severed they stare from spearhead branches
as morning orange bursts to blue,
swinging one stilt like a lightsaber
in the garden dew—I spy a rough-cut,
and hold the log fixed as if a third arm
for minutes alone. Yet they remain still,
hooked stubborn in the black wire.