Murder Along the Road

(American Crows)

A murder of crows races along the road
the members impossible to follow one by one.
Their wings dark as night
still flash the colors of the sky.

Raucous calls from shining beaks
a caw-cophony of trills and barks and raspy sounds
are beyond understanding.
Calls of joy or warnings? “We come.”

Too exuberant to notice the danger posed
one abruptly turns and brushes against metal and glass
its flesh and feathers explode
swept behind to settle in tar and gravel.

I want to think its spirit still flies with abandon
where asphalt never laid
where fuming, wheeled monsters
never claimed their awful price.