Buzzards

Gregarious in hunger, a flock of twenty

turn circles like whorls of barbed wire,

no spot below flown over uncanvassed.

The closer to death the closer they come,

hesitant on wings with keen impatient

perseverance, dark blades lying in wait

until age or wound has turned canter

into carcass or near enough for them

to swoop scrupulous in benediction,

land hissing, hopping, tearing, gorging,

no portion, save bone, too durable

to digest. What matters cannot remain.