morning is grey and muggy
the sky a clinging old blanket
rough
itchy
sweaty
the road smashed crow is flat
flush with the black top
a
wing
and
two feathers point up and wave in the traffic breeze
like an indian headdress
but
in the cool grey pm
the sky like a dishrag dripping dirty water
its
a black refuse sack blowing in exhaust gusts
stuck to
the
tarmac
by miserable adhesive waste
but
then
the next morning
sky like gym socks
heavy with the funk of use
i can see the twisted talons
and
a
smashed flash
of
yellow
beak
again
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