There is Always the Shadow of a Buzzard

January 13th, 2019

There is always the shadow of a buzzard
drifting on hot air rising from the rocks
bathed in sun –
Eagles of the dead they wait almost lazy,
knowing that death will come when it must come
and then, they may take and it will be enough
though putrid they are made to dig into that rotting flesh
like patient eagles hunched waiting on the wind to rise
They wait in foothills overnight to let darkness take her toll
Then they alight to do the filthy job that they must do.
Not caring how they opine who are not called to their same occupation

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