Carrion 

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Dead fox.
Dead crow.
Possum with entraills exposed,
crimson and gory,
to the sky.
Carrion litters my commute to work
and I think of the lucky hawks
who will spoop down to enjoy
these critters
who once walked on stone of earth
or flew by light of moon,
but now lie with fur and feathers
cracked open.
I drive towards my cage,
musing about freedom.

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