I, unaccountably, love vultures.
Shy and overly friendly,
they’ll carefully pluck the buttons from your shirt.
No really, it happened to me.
Well, it was only one button.
Gaining a vulture’s trust takes time.
In the heat of a late August morning
try a hose that sprays cool water
under their wings and across their heavy chests.
Afterwards, glistening wings held wide,
the vulture will smile.
Head tilted just so; his beak left slightly ajar;
his black eyes rolling in ecstasy.
But I digress…
I always digress.
The slow presence of prayer
and the slow drying of the vulture’s wings.
These are only talismans.
Against what— I can no longer tell.
Against the loss of memory?
But I want to forget God.
As if he had simply walked away
from the world
on that August morning
while I was bathing the vultures.
Published on The Laundry Line, April 8th, 2025
