Something in me, I suppose, must be going blind

A flock of jackdaws thumped away
from the coal shed.
They got two meadow lengths
then began to oscillate,
melding into a fine black strip.

It took me a few seconds to realise
they'd settled on a phoneline,
talons nocking round cable,
throttling conversations like someone
boot-crushing a wasp.

I know it's dangerous
to use the phone
in a storm
but Elsie, I just had to
call you.
They've been there three days now,
paintballing the dry stone wall
with their shit,
fattening, fattening,
yakking like clams.
Even the phone poles
bow to them.

Through their banded heels
they can feel our breathing;
the shriek of my modem
shivers up their ankles,
shakes the dead air in their hollow bones.
They open their beaks
and data sprays out like confetti.