The Day of the Dead

The end of October brings
roadkill to the highways.
All varieties of small,
unfortunate animals
litter the shoulders between
Pennsylvania and Delaware,
as if part of the fall foliage
display — foxes, dogs,
raccoons, fuzzy house cats
splayed out like serial victims,
collective suicides telling of
lost volition.
They must have never learned
how to get across — even
in the night the twin disembodied
lights come at inhuman
speeds like in a strange
dream of trains.
The birds I once thought
were hawks become crows
that peck and flutter,
ashamedly, at their appetite
for carnage.



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