Veiled in black lace,
one by one,
they perch
each on their favorite beam,
and pew, and nook.
Waiting to swoop,
down the unsuspecting victim.
Sharpening their talons,
bead by bead,
they wait
for the slightest mistake,
or the faintest of crease
on the dress
of the gathering worshipers.
Coming to church much earlier than the rest,
going home from church much later than the rest;
( more pious than the rest,
more proper than the rest,
if one's too busy
like a god looking down mere mortals,
there is no time to rest).
There they flock
at the church,
circling and circling
in their calculated death-dance.
It's half past six.
It's time to prey...
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