Buzzards wheel above our town
dipping feather wands as if witching for water. Black tips
read the air, its sun-ripple scent-current Braille,
and conjure the underground body who responds,
finding its artesian way through layers of rock and dark to the sky.
They sled the air, brake on the steel rail
circling the water-tower tank, our turkey buzzards
watching over the town. They survey the round world
for death that they may take it from us.
True lies. We don’t know minds that might wish not
to know ours, eyes we cannot see that see ours.
Ripened fruits of darkness, they refuse to be eaten by this poem.
Perched on the high carousel, patient as steel
they wait for the carnival ride to start, watching
our random walk through the park. They scan the snow
one ruffling feathers at its pretense of sky? Another salivating
at water holding its breath like death? The rail sings
in the wind as the buzzards begin turning
on its center whirling these immense worlds
till unknown minds at play or fixed on love or war
skiffle feather tips and soar from this poem.
--David Herrstrom
dipping feather wands as if witching for water. Black tips
read the air, its sun-ripple scent-current Braille,
and conjure the underground body who responds,
finding its artesian way through layers of rock and dark to the sky.
They sled the air, brake on the steel rail
circling the water-tower tank, our turkey buzzards
watching over the town. They survey the round world
for death that they may take it from us.
True lies. We don’t know minds that might wish not
to know ours, eyes we cannot see that see ours.
Ripened fruits of darkness, they refuse to be eaten by this poem.
Perched on the high carousel, patient as steel
they wait for the carnival ride to start, watching
our random walk through the park. They scan the snow
one ruffling feathers at its pretense of sky? Another salivating
at water holding its breath like death? The rail sings
in the wind as the buzzards begin turning
on its center whirling these immense worlds
till unknown minds at play or fixed on love or war
skiffle feather tips and soar from this poem.
--David Herrstrom