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.
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