Last night I watched him
standing on the rocky shore, silent and tranquil,
facing the strong southeast wind.

I wondered if a reverie
walked aimlessly in the entrails of his brain,
if he had longings or fantasies,
if the tributaries of premonition
nested in his consciousness.

Then he dipped his gnarly head into the shallows,
his yellow beak plucking the limber carcass of a gar
upon which he began to feast,
pecking with purpose amid his vigilance.

Now grateful for his service
because I would be fishing there in the morning,
I wondered why his species had always repelled me.

Was it the gawky ruddiness
of the small face atop that huge black body?
Or was it because they feed on death
while I assiduously deny it?

Maybe I should love buzzards.
Not high-priced morticians,
their transition service is free.

Like confessors they clean up our past
and help us look up and see
the awesome possibility of flight.

05/20/2005

Posted on 05/21/2005
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier