store lot,
a carrion crow
makes a loud
show of its
roadkill inspection
before taking-off
with guts
trailing from its mouth
and leaving
in its wake just one
single spectacular
feather
of implausibly
iridescent sable.
And the moral
of this fable, as it drifts,
shimmers, settles?
That god may well
be a crook
or a sham—but
the glory
of creation? Well
and truly: god damn.
