This judgement from above
is not by God.
A squadron of 17 vultures
out of RAAF formation
each to its turning screw of air
is making light of gravity
in the late evening blue.
Broomless witches.
The pale neck ruffle is
that of the Leonine class
distinguishable from eagles
by wider wingspan and,
like hyenas, the family pack.
On my back, warmed by slates
I hold breath, slit-eyed, wait
for one to descend from 200 feet
to run a closer beak and eye
over this still-breathing meat.
No need, they keep to their art
of spiral staircases
alert only for carrion’s fume
past-it pig, fallen fox, keeled cow
down for any dish that’s overdone.
They lean away, not as one
but in unruffled accord
of auto-pilot, cruise control.
I roll onto my belly
slateheat now on bony knees
all the fleshy parts up to chin.
Inwardly I grin:
I’ve just passed muster
or passed it, just.
Optimist, soon I will arise
go inside to prepare supper
in red wine put my trust
convinced as a Leonine vulture
about the here and the after.