—a pose that’s almost reverence.
To follow where he’s gazing, I grab the binoculars I keep for spying
on a pair of buzzards.
One’s perched on the bole of a dead oak left standing
near the creek
where two men are hiding beside a bank of willows:
the older one’s sitting on a stump,
knees wedged apart like someone playing a large instrument,
a cello or bass,
while the younger bows his head against the other’s groin.
Their bodies a tableau the buzzard ignores,
his bare head indifferent to their desires, because he’s
preening himself like a god,
wings hunched open, brazen as a flasher’s coat.
His feathers fingering the air—catching that extra bit of sun
making its way
through each barb and barbule, through rachis and shaft
—savoring the heat we’re all made from.