The Happy Hour
One, two, three. Then by the dozen, the birds began to die. Came down in soft rain. I looked up and wondered, but saw no reason or blame. Just more birds coming down.
I walked my way with respectful steps between, made my path to the bar. I ask her for a drink and she said that I looked worried. "It's the birds," I say, "They bother me when they fall dead like that." She studies me while I listen to the feather thuds out there.
"No," She decides, "I think you must have looked worried before the falling of the birds. You seem like you've been worried for a long, long time."
She's right. Things for me have been bad. "Maybe I am what's killing all those birds."
The street graves kept on filling, all the way to the window ledge before the end of my first beer. At the closing of my second there weren't many birds left in the air. "I am to blame." So I ordered a third. And, when I left I stumbled across a city feather bed.
Then it began to rain.
I hurried home, as best I could, to listen to the falling of the clouds. Nighttime came, with the clearest sky, with the pounding of the stars. And, when I woke from that falling night, I noticed god laying all about. Bits of this and bits of that, with a sightless void all above.
"I guess that's that." I said, and went my way back to the bar. Drinking down the possibilities of what else would fall. And when I heard a final creak, like the sound of wood that keeps up the world and more, I finished down my beer, and let myself drift off into one more dream.