The wake of vultures glides innoxious, one
by one. The cold snapped the glass doors closed. Spun
into waiting, subdued. Death knell obtrudes.
Déjà vu. Signs lamp-bright in morning dew.
This time my wisdom spurs rejection. Closed
mouth, I listen. The abjection exposed
is immune to reflection. A lecture
is no cure for dying’s architecture.
A black harbinger chimney-perched surveys.
Message imparted, moon-strong, swoops away.
Eagle slow-wings, hawk cries, intensity
hones. Heartache receives death’s immensity.
Featured image: Just a few of the many avian spirit messengers this morning. Even as I write this, the plovers are ke-dee-ing, hawks are skreeing, in an otherwise eerie silence (since the porch doors are firmly closed against the brrr cold).