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Lucky

 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.

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