Five crows sit on my lawn, staring me down.

A ghost I’ll be in five days time.

_Be wary of five_

__

_Who seem to thrive_

_Off you being alive…_

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The rhyme comes to my mind, invoking pure fear within me. Someone wants be dead.

I walk outside, near the omens of death to find bird seed scattered in mounds.

I turn and assess my yard, desperately searching for something that proves someone commit this crime.

I hear the crows caw and my skin shivers at their haunting warnings.

One jumps in the sky, flaring its arms in tragic beauty, that’s when I felt the bullet.

I turn to find my chest flowing crimson red.

I fall near the crows questioning who sent them to take my life.