A dance of crows

Rising from the road, 

from the death and the pieces of meat that lay from the tires and from the cars,

are the crows.

Their quiet elegance is forgotten,

the beauty of the black wings spread is ignored

but they always escape

they always swoosh and rise and spread in the unrelenting desert sun

amongst the dry wheat-colored grass

into the hunter-green specked hills over the mesas

across the cliffs.

The crows are forgotten,

pieces of night crossing the day

windows into another reality

black specks

massive and tiny.