Buzzards

Gregarious in hunger, a flock of twenty turn circles like whorls of barbed wire, no spot below flown over uncanvassed. The closer to death the closer they come, waiting on wings with keen impatient perseverance, dark blades lying in wake until age or wound has turned canter into carcass or near enough for them to swoop scrupulous in benediction, land hissing, hopping, tearing, gorging. no portion, save bone, too durable to digest. What matters cannot remain.