After the Train Crash

They perch quietly in the coaches looking at us through shattered windows, bituminous eyes starkly stare from window seats. It is strange thing to see, but the crows know something. Some passengers hang in the stillness shocked by the lack of time, some arrange mangled bodies like cut-flowers upon an oozing canvas. The crows peck at the cracked windows, the sky wants to come inside, and it does painting dazed faces onto trammeled forms. The brief blessings of last moments come and go, then the dead wave cheerily as the train moves on across a still falling sky.