The sky is not empty. Not yet, but soon.
Inside the wind is a Turkey-Vulture.
Wings stroked by clouds, against blue that is steady, or moving, or both;
the swishing silence of deep ocean, where perhaps the Turkey-Vulture escapes the songs of smaller birds, songs that writhe in his throat with longing.
What might he himself sing? Of the good, long path back to lifeless animals warmed by sun.
Light is caught here in the trees,
and at night the Turkey-Vultures grieve in their dead tree roost,
unbearable cold on the breath of each breeze,
and they ready themselves for the leaving.
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