Sunday, March 08, 2009

Your Sunday Poem

Turkey Vultures, by Ted Kooser, from "Delights & Shadows."

Circling above us, their wing-tips fanned
like fingers, it is as if they are smoothing

one of those tissue-paper seweing patterns
over the pale blue fabric of the air,

touching the heavens with leisurely pleasure,
just a word or two called back and forth,

taking all the time in the world, even though
the sun is low and red in the west, and they

have fallen behind with the making of shrouds.


Mike Green said...

One sweet pound of filet mignon
sizzles on the roadside. Let's say a hundred yards below
the buzzard. The buzzard
sees no cars or other buzzards
between the mountain range due north
and the horizon to the south
and across the desert west and east
no other creature's nose leads him to this feast.
The buzzard's eyes are built for this: he can see the filet's raw
and he likes the sprig
of parsley in this brown and dusty place.
No abdomens to open here before he eats.
No tearing, slashing with his beak,
no offal-wading
to pick and rip the softest parts.
He does not need to threaten or screech
to keep the other buzzards from his meat.
He circles slowly down,
not a flap, not a shiver in his wide wings,
and lands before his dinner, an especially lucky buzzard,
who bends his neck to pray, then eats.

Thomas Lux

Bev. De Witt-Moylan said...

Usual Stuff

They couldn't reach the cord to make it stop & so it flew about scaring the older ladies just out of church. It left behind a trail of wet feathers & a renewed sense of the presence of evil among the faithful. Once they found out who started it, everyone settled down & went back to hating the usual stuff.
- story of the day

Churadogs said...

Love it. Our dear buzzards, without which the world would truly be a messy place. We give Thanks!