Crows pecking at carrion
scatter as a vehicle approaches
with the drive and discern
of a freight train.
This the road to nowhere.
Skinny, bare trees line the
highway, jagged fingers
pointing upward.
The crows, however, look down
for their next meal, circling
overhead, surrounding the smell
of the newly dead.
The crows don’t know the bleakness,
the desperation of their scene,
they don’t know that the world calls them bad omens —
all they know is feast or famine.
read more poetry about birds.
