The marital bliss of pied crows
is evident every few miles.
Where and when the black ribbon road will deliver
is not important.
Sooner or later, someoneís going to make a mistake.
The horizon a farmersí sculpture
except for wild gorges where
the half-man aloes swarm down.
Smaller aloes are proffered
flame-licked by the roadside.
The crows wait together, passing the time of day on the poles,
polishing each otherís beaks until they can admire their reflections.
Tearing through the flesh of the victims of bad timing.
Scoffing giblets, swallowing kidneys, rending sinew.
Fearing nothing from the traffic cops
chatting under the blue gums
Not being fooled by the souls of long dead road kill
who possess wind-blown plastic bags
for another dash across the road.
We slow down to sixty
stop and buy the famous meat pies,
slippery with butter.
Drive on happily chewing
passing more happy couples on the way.