I am prompted this morning
to consider things putrescent.
Vultures are soaring to scan
the shore so I look with them.
A bloated white body of a grass-
fed carp rises from the depths
of the bay like a slow-mo eruption
through the threshold
of sky and water. Just out of reach,
so the huge birds land along the point.
And I’m floored by the fatuous
comments of the humans who are disgusted
by the “filthy birds” gathering in a precise
pecking order, watching the creep
of the current bring the body
to their care. How can we not
praise these two species especially
dedicated to decontaminating
the planet, speeding along
decomposition? How is this sacred
act scorned and abhorred?
I tune in to the willingness
to plunge in to the blood and gore.
Awaiting what makes us shudder in dread
with wide wingspread warnings
to stay in line, brother.
Integration is a precious gift.
Close to the shore, a fin breaks
the surface, a carp tugging weeds
from the lake bottom.
the vortex of vultures play
catching updrafts, ascending only
to dive alarmingly in downspins,
and if I relax into
the strains of the symphony
orchestrating this dance
appear: not sight or sound,
the vibrations of what moves us
in that space where we are one.