Cleaning Up

A country road, a clutch of crows And this is how it went: They’d land right in the middle With mysterious intent. They’d hunt and peck until a car Would come a bit too near, Then they’d fly off and swoop back down Right when the coast was clear. Their new spot, though, was farther Down the road from where they’d been And then the hunt and peck routine Would once again begin. My husband figured out the cause, For on that stretch of tar Are critters squished beneath the wheels Of every passing car. So all those crows were cleaning up The frogs, the slugs, the worms That we would never notice As we walk along the berms.