Turkey Buzzard

Instead of in the
chrome metal cold
of medical winter,
only to be hauled off
by some moonlight
backdoor mortician,
it is my dream
to die here
on Moore’s Knob...

The beauty of his horrible
naked head,
he catches warm pockets
on the rise
and shadows the valley floor.
The joy
when at last
the long search ends,
and down he will come.

The warm granite
sparkles granular,
worthy and worthless
as diamonds.
A papery rustle
of brushing wing,
with little kisses
his probing pink beak
kindly picks me clean.

And again,
I become...

Hunched in a feathered cloak
on the edge of a rocky ledge,
or shifting a tail feather
to send us spinning,
spinning wildly upward
into blue wonder.