Dark Magic

The crows circle above your open grave, their disturbance a harsh unnatural sound emanating from the black blot that blocks out the sun and threatens to drown out the sound of songbirds who cluster at the forest’s edge. While other mourners bow their heads, I raise my eyes to the sky and the cacophony overhead. You cannot fool me, you and your dark magic. You have called them here as part of your final wishes, and as one shining beast swoops low, I watch you rise from the grave with it, the sound of your laughter fading into the sky.

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© 2021 by Brooke Davis