While I wandered tired and troubled, visions rose appearing doubled,
of a bird of pale gray color flapping on a curtained window pane.
Overhead, I heard him utter, some barbaric, awful mutter,
with a Scottish brogue and stutter, stutters of the most profane.
"'Tis a heathen curse," I shuddered, "utters of the most profane."
"Crazy bird has gone insane."
While I watched in abject horror, shifting shapes joined in the furor,
grabbing at the writhing creature; snaring it with silver strands of chain.
Seeing movement in the curtain, shaking legs moved on, uncertain,
glancing back just to be certain; I saw a hand reach through the pane.
"Bony fingers pulled," I murmured, "pulled it through the window pane."
"Mystic bird escaped in vain."
Be it fiendish, or my fancy, one thing's certain, it is chancy,
to be out on Hallow's Evening; walking down a country village lane.
Could've been the amber sipping, bended elbows, evening tipping,
giving me a frantic gripping, gripping bouts of mental strain.
"Tis a foolish freak," I whispered, "tripping, slipping, mental strain."
"...feathers drifting down the lane."
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