I, Vulture
A poem
Black cross emblazoned
against vast blue ease,
riding warm curves of air.
Circles ever higher,
keen eye scans below
for telltale scent of death.
Tilting broad wings to bank,
sun catching crimson edge
as lazily he soars.
Effortless gliding master,
unburdened by earthly ties,
riding the weightless thermals.
Patience is his creed,
awaiting nature’s course
to feast on what life discards.
Macabre elegant clean-up crew,
unruffled by decay’s rank gift,
consummately adapted hunter.
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