One sweet pound of filet mignon sizzles on the roadside. Let's say a hundred yards below the buzzard. The buzzard sees no cars or other buzzards between the mountain range due north and the horizon to the south and across the desert west and east no other creature's nose leads him to this feast. The buzzard's eyes are built for this: he can see the filet's raw and he likes the sprig of parsley in this brown and dusty place. No abdomens to open here before he eats. No tearing, slashing with his beak, no offal-wading to pick and rip the softest parts. He does not need to threaten or screech to keep the other buzzards from his meat. He circles slowly down, not a flap, not a shiver in his wide wings, and lands before his dinner, an especially lucky buzzard, who bends his neck to pray, then eats.
(c) Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information
has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site
visitors, and is provided at no charge.. About
Us | Copyright notice |
Privacy statement | Help
11/26/2009 1:10:31 PM. #.26# You Are Here:
Lucky by Thomas Lux