Rumor, just an old poem about Turkey Buzzards

 

Rumor

The sun breaches the horizon
and an adobe building turns orange,
a color previously reserved for Fall leaves
or certain butterflies that migrate
when the equinox moves them.

I huddle close to the wall
as though the flush will create heat,
watch the stand of cottonwoods
looming over the creek bed, dry these
summer months, and wait
for turkey buzzards.

                                    They arrive
as the sun starts to give off warmth
they land as delicately as doves
onto the branches. From this vantage
they watch the desert waken. From
here they rest, hunched as old men
over their soup, black feathers soaking
up light as though that too was part
of the diet.

There will be some death somewhere
here today, some miscalculation that will
allow them to depart, lead by the scent
of carrion or perhaps something fresher,
which they will gather around like a ladies’ tea
pulling apart their meal like gossips.