Four times now
I have driven past a shrinking heap
of long black feathers:
unmistakably vulture,
apparently untouched.
These birds do not readily
eat their own,
preferring the sweet meat
of herbivores, though,
on lean days, they’ll consume
almost anything
giving off the gas of death,
which they can smell
from their circles in the sky.
Not keen on killing,
they will wait out their dinner,
keeping a dark eye on the faltering.
Fresh bodies are best,
but rotting corpses are welcome too,
a lucky break for the rest of us—
imagine a landscape
with no clean-up crews.
The bird on the road
must have died quickly,
misjudging perhaps
the speed of a semi.
I once saw a hawk
make that mistake,
a sight that left me shaken,
afraid for all of us.
Keeping her hidden tally,
nature allows for senseless things,
even a bit of waste now and then,
like a bird no others will eat,
as if the risk were a crossing
into chaos.
