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.
mabel lee 