|
Vulture
by Steven Craig
Lurking on the office fence post, the writing vulture laments the passing editors, as they rush past her, stomping underfoot her evening meal. She looks over, long and carefully, the tasteful morsel beckoning, holding for her the delights of a long snatch, tear, pull, and swallow. Her stomach growls for its filling, but still the editing traffic will not abate. With each passing footfall, the meat of the issue is eroded away, worn into the distance, evaporated on the pavements of her source.
The vulture waits.
She looks with forlong hope, though weeping eyes, as her last hope for substance is carelessly denied her, no words, no rhyme, no message to carry the moment, her only hope is to swoop down quickly and tear the meat from the page of pavement, before the lead rollers revolve upon her.
The vulture waits impatiently.
Her wings spread, not to be warmed or dried, but to test the aires, to see if she has that one last great power of purpose, the drive to survive, the will to beat the odds, the taking of the risk to ensure her family, the caring on of the species of writers that has been hidden in the timberland so long. Her neck twists and turns, looking for the opening, the moment to act, the gap in the revenue that is just sufficient to allow her to carry though such an audacious act.
The vulture waits immobile.
Her talons are flexing in the empty air, gripping the motionless handle, her perch to sit and watch, to endure the waiting, to affix the moment that she can be assured a receipt, a response, an acknowledgment, a word, a waving of a hand, the extending of a finger, anything to show she has made the editorial cut, the final filter, the supreme gift of her purpose.
The vulture gathers her resolve.
Her legs are bending, her thighs pressing against the pull of the earth. Wings unfurled to their majestic width, eyes, fixed hungrily on her target, neck bending down as the body rises up, the sun is right, the wind is with her. There it comes, the needed gap in the traffic to the press, her moment is at hand. Her talons release their safe grip, as her intent takes hold that now, at last the moment has arrived, that one tick of the clock for which her life will be rendered meaning. She beings to commit to the swoop.
A black crow surprisingly soars by at speed, inches from the ground, never leaving its wings, and snags the juicy morsel for its self.
The vulture in mid swoop, never lets on disappointment, returns in full circle to her office fence post. Her eyes watching the crow sweep away in a long lazy S curve back into its forest, and wonders if tomorrow might not be a better day.
03/09/2008 Author's Note: Gosh.
When I wrote this, I wa having the time of my llife laughing about all this, and I was going to park it in my Humor folder.
I have gotten email from all over stating how much this really applies to business, that it has a profound and even sad moralistic application for anyone learning about life.
Sigh.
Posted on 03/09/2008
Copyright © 2024 Steven Craig
|
