October 6, 2020.

The birds slither towards us on their backs, rowing against the living room carpet with their severely broken wings. Their feathers are slick and matted with oil, and brown juice like chaw spit leaks from their joints and fissures and unhinged beaks.

"Get out of here, birds," we shout at them. "We're trying to play Scrabble!" But I'd left the window open (my bad) and there's too many of them and even though we're kickin and hollerin they still overwhelm us and start forcing their wet and broken bodies down our gullets, which tastes, I don't mind saying, bad.