The Crows
by William S. Webster


A gang of them
sifts through the mangled body
of a squirrel in the street,
its tangle of red jelly
exposed to the cold.
Last night
it ran out of luck,
frozen under sudden
paralyzing lights.
Now, walking along the sidewalk
I reach the scene
as two hungry birds
steal a few last morsels
then whip away
to a high window ledge
mocking my authority
with long cackling peals.

As I pass, breathless,
another crow
dangerously black
aims an eye at me
from a low branch,
cawing over his shoulder
then turning deftly on one foot
like a gangster coolly
sizing up a victim.
I cross the street
though I know crows
are everywhere
searching the city
with insatiable hunger.
I take my chances.






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