The ravens are in the bins again bayonet beaks pierce the bags plucking out their treasures with the haughtiness of some long dead French aristocrat
crimped gold foil, torn chip packets, the skeleton of a chicken, remnants picked bare. The morning sun’s fever swallowed deep into the gloss of blue- black feathers
they scavenge and sing, and it feels like something is unravelling. Rot fumes the air, eggshells crumble beneath my feet, crushed into fine gravel. Everything is dead, but also alive. A million
silvery flies plume into the air in front of me and I can’t see where I am going. My unhatched plans buzz in my ears, as I try to peel away the skin of this lost year.
Adele Hally is an Australian writer. Her work has appeared in Phantom Kangaroo, Folklore Review, The Marrow Poetry, and the Hunter Writer’s Centre 2024 Grieve anthology. She lives and works in Sydney and is studying part-time for a BA in creative writing at Curtin University.
Photo © Townsend Walton. All rights reserved. 
