Black sky

Is it coincidence that when
the evening bleeds pink orange
you look up and twirl a bit
to absorb the ephemeral twilight,
that it's as if the sky has chickenpox,
except you look closely and see
it's not chicken but crows,
of course, then your brain reminds you
that chicken don't fly high, so now
you can confirm your worst fears,
it is after all Halloween,
and hordes of black winged devils
fill every inch of your sight,
they act like they don't know your whereabouts
but oh how clever they are,
for when you're out pretending to be a wily witch,
with the black cone hat and made up kohl eyes,
unaware of the dark souls you have offended
with your innocent mockery and fake broom,
they are watching and they will come after you
leading their masters, witches on brooms,
through the pox and pus-filled horizon.

Of course it may just be that
the annual winter migration of crows
coincides with the day of death,
but the twisted mind condemns them,
mourners in disguise,
waiting for the opportune moment
to swoop down on your head.