JB Mulligan

A snow-bound Sunday morning, walking home
with papers and a crumb cake under my arm.

The ice behind me crackles - I step to the side
as a car rolls past in the center of the road.

It honks, then swerves - three crows flap up and away,
distinct against the sky´s uneven gray.

Quickly they return to pick and tear,
short, spasmodic lungings. As I come near,

they cock their heads. A brief inspection: No.
(Perhaps the cat was hunting birds in the snow.)

I turn away. Ahead, aloft - a scrap
of orange fur drifts down to crusted slop.