Juvenile Jackdaws

by Amit Parmessur

A baffling rain of birds blackened
my New Year in a snowy Swedish street.

My knees buried in the soft shroud I gazed
at one bird’s demise. His light blue eyes were
bordered with a young desire to soar,
but the death carousels inside were growling
so ominously. The purple sheen on
his crown reminded me of crazy queens
widowed after just one night.
The tip of his beak in the snow was like
a warrior’s rusty sword sleeping in
a morose sheath. No expressions
on his grayish-silver cheeks,
the bill and legs so black,
the green-blue sheen on his throat
like a pinch of poison, the bird’s stature
was a giant statue of death on cotton.
I remained silent, very silent, and
completely motionless as the breeze spoke
something into my nostrils.