The Vulture Circle

A circle of vultures, in orbits fly Through this patch of highway sky. I see no corpse, no bloody-bleed Of deer or deer or bear, on which to feed. I see only the road and cars, Highway signs with steely bars, Bridges built in the nineteen sixties, Some appear in need of fixing. So why appear, birds of the dead? And circle slow about our heads? Why make the scene grim and stern? Like something out of an old western… Perhaps they have some premonition, Of death to come, or near perdition. Perhaps somehow they’re sensing fate, And decided not to sit and wait. Why they gather, I do not know, But I’d rather not be in traffic, slow; Beneath the carrion-eating mass I wish these folks would work the gas.