Plight of the Auspex

“Some poison has perturbed the flight of birds
beyond the outer limits of my art;
or else the last good spirit is interred
and demons batten on the human heart.
If toxin, then a thrice-repeated word
is antidote. I’d speak it, and depart.
But if the bleaker auspice is inferred
from twisted ways the swifts and swallows dart,
then love itself has too long been deferred,
and words, if said, would surely go unheard.”

In unison the birds flew stranger still,
converging in a shape that conjured dread,
and looking up, the auspex wished them ill
as droppings splattered on his hapless head.