Crow

The congeling blood filled crow
dots a flight path overhead
4000 hours of airborne surveillance logged
in an thickening imagination.
Inefficent feathers cut through thermals
down below his friends gorge on human excess.
Yet Gregg for that what he calls his conscious self
his name taken from the brown papered litter
he used to feed from cannot land.
This last flight
this curse of his evolved thinking
being too aware causes each vessel to turn to stone
to be able to survive.
Gregg knows that already his belly is swollen solid
brittle legs hang like autumn frosted twigs
if he lands
he will never take off again
his body
outstretched in its last dying fight
for flight.
No. I will not be remembered
as he crashed into ground
shatters into  tiny concrete fragments.
Easier to erode this way.