Carrion & Kite String

There is something primal—

a fear, a fascination,

a superstitious bunching of the shoulders,

a snapping of the head—

when large carrion feeders

cast their shadows

upon you, around you,

in your peripheral vision.

It never stops feeling ominous—

and there are so many of them here. Buzzards. Black Vultures.

They land in pairs

on the tree we call The Watcher,

feeding the myth of their own mysticism.

The thought that death must be near.

They sun their wings atop the water tower—

like bats turned right-side up.

But in flight—

soaring, gliding, playing on the wind—

they are magnificent.

And I am filled

with a childlike urge

to fly a kite.