Circling Vultures

I.

We drove out of Colorado Bend,
passed a dead tree full of Vultures.
It was hard to imagine anything
more perfect for a Texas morning.
That day, we believed in forever.
Even as we passed the vulture tree.

II.

Along the highways, vultures soar overhead,
shadows sharing asphalt with cars that run down
those shadows unnoticed by the drivers.
The vultures don’t miss anything.
They know we’ll be back this way.
They will wait, and in the meantime,
their wings will barely move.

III.

I saw a vulture with a secondary feather
bent backwards and up like the flap on an
airplane’s wing as it comes in for a landing.
The bird didn’t seem to mind the twisted feather.
When I saw him again, he was 15 miles down the road,
and I was on my way home.

IV.

I asked a birder if he’d seen anything interesting.
He spat on the ground, saliva sizzling on summer pavement.
Nothing. Just a bunch of buzzards.
The vultures ignored us and our binoculars, content
to trace their simple prophecy in the sky.

—

“Circling Vultures” was one of 3 poems originally published at Thirteen Myna Birds in July 2009. Poems don’t stick around long over there before they fly away, so I’m posting them here for those who may have missed them back in July. This is 2 of 3. It has been slightly modified from its original form.