There is no object so foul that intense light will not make it beautiful.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson
The vultures who roost in our oaks
have terrible posture. Stooped, sad
shoulders. Sometimes, they swoop
from the trees to perch on our white
fence in a macabre row. Songless
birds of prey lacking vocal cords,
they greet us with a guttural hiss.
Yesterday, I counted 23 in the bare
autumn branches. In dusky sunlight,
their bald heads glowed ruby red.
Some sat with outstretched wings,
drying them, or showing off to attract
a partner. Faithful, they mate for life.
When our kids abandon soccer balls
on the lawn, the kettle of vultures
rolls them with their sharp beaks
and wrinkled heads, back and forth
to each other, playful as preschoolers.
