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Turkey Buzzard
by David HillInstead of in the
chrome metal cold
of medical winter,
only to be hauled off
by some moonlight
backdoor mortician,
it is my dream
to die here
on MooreÂ’s Knob...
The beauty of his horrible
naked head,
he catches warm pockets
on the rise
and shadows the valley floor.
The joy
when at last
the long search ends,
and down he will come.
The warm granite
sparkles granular,
worthy and worthless
as diamonds.
A papery rustle
of brushing wing,
with little kisses
his probing pink beak
kindly picks me clean.
And again,
I become...
Hunched in a feathered cloak
on the edge of a rocky ledge,
or shifting a tail feather
to send us spinning,
spinning wildly upward
into blue wonder.
11/10/2006 Author's Note: An attempt to capture Robinson Jeffers’ wonderful “enskyment.”
And as Bugs Bunny once sang, “The buzzard is two-faced, the buzzard is two-faced, He’s a dirty old thing that will lead you to sing, a-hooey a-hooey…”
Posted on 11/11/2006
Copyright © 2026 David Hill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/11/06 at 12:33 AM Well said, man. I really liked this. |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 11/11/06 at 04:03 AM Oh my, you have addressed something I have been trying to put to paper. Well done. There are countries that have the ritual of the "sky burial", of which the vultures play an important part. "A papery rustle of brushing wing,
with little kisses his probing pink beak
kindly picks me clean." You have treated this subject with great respect, almost a gentleness. How much more practical and respectful of our part in this ever recycling world to meet the end of our end on Moore's Knob. Thank you.
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