On The Road Poem by Richard J.P. O'Grady
On The Road
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?
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5/5/2024 6:17:51 AM # 1.0.0.1119
