The carrion birds swing lazy circles through sky,
So high they look like freckles.
Their dark wings cut the air as they descend.
It's funny how small things appear
When you've nothing to compare them to.
They scrape the dry earth.
Faint trails of dust escape between curved talons.
Their unfurled wings shroud black eyes.
Their heads dip and pull at the carcass of some wild animal;
Its eyes are fixed on me but there is no life there.
The birds hunch over their find and beat their wings with eager stomachs.
I watch as the dead creature is methodically recycled
Through that process only Nature has perfected.
Gradually, the birds take flight and leave the body to rot.
It's funny how I am one with the dead.
