I step out on the deck, see my dog’s rapt stare, tail pointer-stiff
—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.
—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.
