poetry by j matthew waters

on highway one hundred

how does a dead hawk
end up on the centerline
unrecognizable except
for the color & pattern
of her feathers

it’s a busy place
especially mid morning
and late afternoon
speeds anywhere from
zero to seventy-five

of course it wasn’t there
come next morning
giving me pause & imagining
what transpired there
in the dead of the night

october two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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