Crow on the Road – A Confrontational Spoken Word Song Exploring Truth, Omens, and Unspoken Questions

I saw it again today. Crow on the road. Same stretch of old asphalt that seems to resist repair—not because we can’t fix it, but because no one chooses to. Like smoothing it over would be an insult to what it remembers. The road holds its scars like they're part of the design. It hums with memory—heat, oil, grief, repetition. And there it was again: the crow, standing like punctuation in a sentence no one finished.

Crow on the road. Crow on the road!? Did you find that toad on the road? Or did someone leave it there for you, like an omen, like a message folded in meat? I don’t ask because I want to know what happened to the toad. I ask because something in me knows that the answer matters more than I can explain. Maybe the toad is beside the point. Maybe it's the question that matters—the asking.

I didn’t stop driving. Not really. I slowed in a way the wheels didn’t register—eyes soft, thoughts jagged. I watched the crow tilt its head like it was listening. Like it knew. You know that feeling when you’ve been carrying a thought for too long, and then something shows up that makes it solid? That was the crow. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move much. Just was. And I had to wonder: was that toad already dead when you found it? Or did you take it from somewhere else? Was it yours to begin with?

The toad wasn’t crushed. It wasn’t burst or mangled. It was too intact, too deliberately placed. That’s what made it louder than anything I’ve heard in weeks. And the way the crow stood—still, unfazed, alert—it made me question how long I’ve been walking past things that are actually trying to talk to me.

There’s a kind of silence that only shows up when you say things people don’t want said. I’ve been hearing a lot of that kind lately. When you ask why the grief keeps repeating, why the same men still wear new masks, why some truths can’t be spoken without losing something you didn’t know you’d placed on the table. When you stop softening your voice, the room empties. Or worse, it pretends it didn’t hear.

So I talk to the crow. To the road. To whatever part of the universe doesn’t flinch when I raise my voice. I ask: Did you find that toad on the road, or was it left for you like an assignment? Like a reminder? Like an accusation? The crow doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t leave either. And maybe that is an answer.

I don’t think this is about wildlife anymore. I think it’s about recognition. The crow knew I was looking. And it kept looking back. There’s something terrifying about being seen without needing to speak. Something holy about not being offered comfort when what you really need is clarity.

Maybe the toad is me. Maybe I’ve been laying on this godforsaken stretch of road, waiting for someone to name me useful or pitiful or sacred. Maybe I’ve been whole in a way that makes people uncomfortable. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just... present in a way that can’t be ignored.

I’m beginning to see the truth behind things. The small betrayals that built the houses we live in. The apologies we hand out to make our own avoidance feel noble. And I keep coming back to that bird. That damn crow. Still. Watching. Refusing to clean up the scene. Refusing to flinch.

Crow on the road. You didn’t apologize for the mess. You didn’t drag it off into the ditch so no one would see. You let it exist, in all its unfinished stillness. You looked at it like it had a right to be there. Like it meant something. Like it was warning or witness, I’m not sure which.

And I... I’ve spent too long interrupting the silence. Trying to sanitize pain before it says something I can’t take back. But the crow doesn’t fix. The crow just sees. The crow waits. That’s the lesson, isn’t it? Not every wound needs a bandage. Some things have to stink a while. Some truths have to rot in the open before anyone really knows what they mean.

I think that’s why this became a song. Not because I wanted it to be one. Because it needed to be. There was no other place for the question to go. No one else to ask. The road doesn’t forget. The crow doesn’t lie. The toad—whatever it was—refused to play dead.

So I’ll keep asking. Not for answers. For presence. For recognition. For something honest enough not to flinch. Crow on the road, did you find that toad on the road... or did the road find you?