Road Kill

The three crows are scuttling back and forth between the gutter and the dead possum near the yellow-striped center where commuters are trying hard not to encounter anything but the road on the way to work this dark winter morning. The crows are hungry, and their half-finished breakfast is no longer worrying about its share of the wealth, so it's all theirs. Other birds, if down here on their own, on their own two feet, would panic instantly instantly seeing us rapidly approaching in our free-wheeling machinery, but not these customers who've learned exactly how much time and space are being offered between the violent edges of a snatch-and-grab breakfast. None of us bothers honking. We've grown accustomed to their evasions and skillful getaways, their unflutterable manners in keeping this highway clear of the evidence of our hurry to get somewhere, no matter what might be unable to get out of our road quickly enough. Sure, later, in the middles of our day, we might slow down a little or even swerve, but it's rush hour for everyone involved in forward progress except the possum. The crows know they have to take chances now while there are still chances to take and their share of the market is still open.