Murder on the Highway

By David Rask Behling

 

Crows crouch, squabble, work

at a furry meal on the road,

wings outstretched, flapping,

as they dine. Driving

too fast, thinking about work,

I hit one…

black feathers, skin and bone

smack, skitter, scratch across

the metal skin. Then silence resonates

as the lifeless thing falls.

The rest of the mob sails

over ditches and fields, except

one glides low across the barren fields,

circles, circles, circles,

then lightly alights with a twist

by the rumpled heap. She skips

from side to side―the wife, the lover…

I see this truth immediately―her eye bent

and bright, her beak open. She calls

out to the feathered heap, flapping

wings outstretching, an old woman

garbed in black, fluttering, feathery fingers

reaching for one who is no longer there.

Disappearing in the mirror behind me:

a motionless silhouette.