The Plumed Crown
The crows are a feathered crowd,
a dark cloud
jostled together as they are
over the roadkill.
They peck and tear
lift a little in the air
allowing another beak
to stab at a morsel.
Black wings
iridescent in the morning light
flutter in the cram and bustle of
their feeding.
Above them a lone hawk
watches from a high perch.
If it swooped to steal a crumb
form the crows table
it would be instantly mobbed
made to flee
swerve and dodge
the anger of the many.
The raptor waits,
for the crows will eventually
fall to bickering and dissent,
some will fly away cawing
others will strut the highway
seeking more edible scraps.
Then the hawk will descend
rummage the remains
and fly off
with a hard won piece of gristle
content to be
the king of its invisible castle
that is
until the riotous corvids return again
to claim its throne.
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