Under the Overpass

wings could drive you crazy under the overpass, the crows gather one by one, flapping it is a perfect day, stuck underneath where cars borrow the bird’s view without a whisper or toll, torrent of landings to complete the murder the row, on an inner ledge, legible perhaps eligible to a mate, could be a male society or female offering we who pass so quickly, only stopping for a light or traffic jamming, see what flies in the dark, in the face we are the ones out of place the fury of the flock, frenetics relics, energetic, spot on sketchy do they see some of the same old cars? do they care or turn a blind eye i haven’t forgotten but what does it matter? it does because a poetic fuse ensues and must in the end die out, forgotten except by the rear end reader who will extend the imagery for a blink or think a deja vu when flocking with crows in trees, on lines, under the overpass