The casualties today: a cottontail, ground squirrel
and two snakes fresh, limp and full. The road,
a long, granite chip-seal plate for buzzards and ravens
to glide, like deacons and undertakers, they preside
by dissecting the deceased, pulling flesh from hide
in some predetermined pecking order where the crows
come last, clean up—all dodging traffic in black—
like a negative of sea gulls behind a ship cleaning fish.
Too late to leap, a turkey vulture lies on his back,
wings to his bony breast in a pillow of dry grass.
Our traffic has increased, but casualties are less
than when we all had time to enjoy a meal.
drycrikjournal 