A Severed Claw

A dried crow's claw lay curled among the crushed grey ballast beside the iron rail. The skin had withered black around the stiff joints, locking the sharp yellow talons into a permanent, greedy clutch. I bent over it without a sound, reaching out with my coarse burlap fingers to test its brittle tension. It did not snap under my grip. Slipping the pointed quill of a red-headed pin from my shoulder, I bound the dead foot tightly into the twine wrapping my upper arm, its curved nails pointing downward like small scythes. Everything left behind belongs right against my skin.