Gray Heaps That Never Rot

lying there is a dead hawk
on the side of the road,
wing up
being propped by a bone

Broken, Pointing up
back to the sky.
Its feathers more gold
than anything around

Could you not tell?
Nature has no place here
We claw at everything
desperately choking it

You can see it in the greys
in the blacks
In the heaps
that never rot

You should have seen
BIRD
that we'd crush you
instantly