Thursday Evening

Sunset and hundreds
Of buzzards, dozens at least,
Literally dozens, circled

Low over the fields
Below Pine Valley.
There was a storm in the air,

Flecks of virga, gusts of wind,
But no clear reason
For the conglomeration
Of the scavengers.

I parked the car in the dust
That swirled from the yellow grass
And watched them circling, slowly,
On unambiguous wings.