This afternoon the vulture couple
sit stoically on the limbs
of the long dead tree in the preserve.
The rain was torrential
as we watched from the dry
confines of our home, they
stood soaked to the feathers
with nowhere to hide, knowing
they couldn’t out fly or out climb
the purging clouds, so they set
soaking wet and stared at us.
And then I knew, just looking
at them, that while I felt sorry
for them perched in a downpour
they felt the same for us, we
unable to know the joy of flight.
The birds departed one morning
which we believe may be how
they express displeasure, although
the destruction of the nests
and the death of the children
by predators may have had
something to do with the departure.
We wait patiently for their return,
the wetland still dry, but we hope
with the wet season that what
is now mud will again drop slowly
beneath the surface, the new
growth will drown, and the birds
will sense a return to status quo
but that assumes that birds are
unlike humans, unbegrudging
and willing to forgive us our sins.
Night arrives,
the rain arrives,
and the sun
is washed away
to dry beyond
the horizon
and there to
prepare to reappear.
an old writer and his words 