The crow squawked and quacked and hissed at the mangled and contorted rag of skin that was torn from the dead squirrel's carcass. He nibbled and plucked and tweaked it. Grabbing it quickly with his beak, tossing it into the air a bit, then letting it drop lifeless onto the asphalt; his head faced away while his eye's maintained an uncontrollable survivalist stare at the pile of flesh-food. Although he was alone, he knew the others would come soon. All he wanted was this generous portion of squirrel back to himself, but it was too heavy to fly with.
There was the occasional vehicle that would slow down and avoid him by slightly swerving around him. He only had to fly off the road a few times to narrowly escape the vehicles of the unwary.
But alas the crow was unlucky, for he suddenly succumbed to liver failure.