Squawk

The dirge played through too few teeth, a stale, sputtering whisper of a song as they hauled off the last of them. Splashes, squirts as they hit the mud until the bodies were piled up higher than sound. Their moldering bones would be their only testament. The last men strong enough to kill and to dig graves and to squeak out a few meaningless syllables would find themselves, in the morning as the air warmed, unable to keep their skins about their skulls.

The birds overhead were silent. There was nothing to communicate. They would feast and fuck on bloated bellies until the raisin-eyed chicks chirped impatiently and unknowingly in the nests of hair and mourning rags. But no more would men walk, hear, or think that, perhaps, these new beaks were singing for them.

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