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ON THE ROAD

by Richard O'Grady

A flock of crows,
the corpse was bleeding freely,
crimson, russet, crimson, black
shiny road.

Does each beakful taste the more
because it's mortal foe?

Whose slaughtered many a youthful crow
which from the nest has fallen,
in evening light, cold chopping jaws
impossible to avoid.

Do these birds remember this
when they tear now mortal foe?