Cleaning Up

A country road, a clutch of crows

And this is how it went:

They’d land right in the middle

With mysterious intent.

They’d hunt and peck until a car

Would come a bit too near,

Then they’d fly off and swoop back down

Right when the coast was clear.

Their new spot, though, was farther

Down the road from where they’d been

And then the hunt and peck routine

Would once again begin.

My husband figured out the cause,

For on that stretch of tar

Are critters squished beneath the wheels

Of every passing car.

So all those crows were cleaning up

The frogs, the slugs, the worms

That we would never notice

As we walk along the berms.