I see them every time I look out my office window. Or go out the side door.

“Help us,” they say.

“Touch us.”

Alien hands, feathery, menacing. Reaching out to touch me with what ungodly result. Never before have aliens managed to push through the fenced border. And now they stretch out constantly, some wicked and high-pitched gurgling almost below one’s range of hearing.

“Feed us. We won’t hurt you.”

Fat chance. I think I’ll pass.