HOODOO VULTURE

Vulture on a hoodoo,
early morning sun,
the hoodoo a hundred
million year old toadstool
now a vulture's throne.

The buzzard's head is red,
stained from thrusting
into the soft parts of dead animals.
This is an underrated job,
not the charismatic megafauna
of grizzly bears or bison herds
or flocks of cackling cranes by the thousands.
It's a solitary job,
at least the waiting for the earth to warm
and the thermals to rise
so the search for death can begin.

The vulture seeks death out,
doesn't fear it or its reminders,
not the look, the bloat,
the maggots, the stench,
doesn't mind the crawling parts
or the rancid juices.

If you don't fear death
you don't fear anything,

I'm near the base of the hoodoo now,
The vulture spreads its wings, back to the sun,
in benediction
and bestows a blessing on me
so I may cross Red Star Ridge
into the vulture's red land.

One should not take lightly
the blessings of animals,
the soft permission of the land,
the passing of guarded gates.


© 1998 by Richard W. Todd

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