When it began they were scouting the sky, back in late august, when the summer light glared fierce. The span of their wings was the extent of a premonition. Drought and desert had come to the city to stay. Dead things lay fresh, but soon to be gone; lives run out and reclaimed back to earth.
On my daily commutes they signaled from above, when doubt and dread circled my mind, like scavengers. It got better when I looked up. Vultures raking air and spotting the blue, waiting patiently, until the great swoop. Precise, economic, my winged totem advised against dilapidation of what good energy I still had. Vultures of the mind are unproductive, inefficient, they don’t leave the land really bare.
Their shadowy silhouettes conceded honour to the city rotting below, it’s heart overrun with concrete, synthetic memories instead of a past. They could smell the end even as it began, and already sailed the sky with prudent grace, circling wide perimeters. Entrusted with disposal, they’d consume us back to our mission of advancement.
They’d answered a muted call –look up!
Vulture, a dark reputation, reference to what is unsightly, death. But by early November of that year I utterly disagreed. I liked my peculiar friend who was almost pure width. I found his stoic way, and his mystical hiss, alluring. Today, when he cruises the sea above, floating effortlessly, omniscient over the mountain range, he assures me all is what it must, even in times of decay, like these.