So I mistook
the dead, broken-winged crow
for a skeletal black umbrella.
Lying there as nobody’s litter
it meant nothing-
but as I passed, a rumbling fear
collected me and the thought of the bird
wouldn’t let me go.
It probably dropped mid-flight,
to the slate-grey shiny road
and lay gutterside to avoid the cars,
waiting to present itself
as an intimation of mortality
for the next unsuspecting goon.

9 thoughts on “Gutterside

  1. “dropped mid-flight, / mid-life” … it definitely seems as though it has trapped you with thoughts of your own mortality.

    such an interesting picture you present in the opening.

  2. “lying there as nobody’s litter” won me. i’ve an almost intimate relationship with crows. I’ve seen so many dead, in various states of decomposition, that I am no longer surprised. Your poem reads smoothly and effectively. You took me back to the first time I found a dead crow with your phrase… “skeletal black umbrella” and your “intimation of mortality” brilliant indeed!

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