tethered to the perch,
my gnarled claws release
the mortar that built
this donjon.

i scale down the limestone,
my grotty body
straining into new shapes.
the axe fell a week ago, and
its weight stole a dimension
from my eyes.

my talons scratch earth for
the first time, crushing
tufts of milkweed underfoot.
i cut through mist,
bumbling down the slope that
dips into town.

amber torches and
thatched roofs glare at me.
the alehouse probes my
barbed ears and
beckons.

a bowed head and raised nail
later, my horrible maw
peers into the shimmering
stoup of golden mead.

twirling froth
warps my toothy scowl
into a nigh human grin–
as my eyes mount the rim,
they meet the barkeep.

baring rows of teeth
like flint corn
and eyes that flicker,
he slacken his yarn fur.
he recounts a coil lined with
shut doors,
fiery rows,
and shadows that bend
in drunken stupor.

for two nights he spoke,
breaking only for
quick bites of bannock.

when he lost his breath,
he thanked my ears
and poured a fresh stein.
anyway, he asked–
what's your story?

i was glad he pried.
with a twitching snout
and loosening chops,
my gravelly throat uttered

i don't do things
and things don't happen to me.