Vultures

Vultures They circle the sky. Waiting patiently for something to die. Back roads collect roadkill They see far away over the hill Flying creatures from above. A fascinating bird brown in mud. Vultures circling in the air. Where the corpse is, they will gather. A final plague is in place. No fear face to face. To the brink of death. Wandering around just waiting overhead. To them everywhere is a graveyard. Beautiful food is not too far. Buzzards wait their turn in line. They stare down the dead on a metal sign. Feed off the dead. What a creepy job they have. They will eat the corpse to the bone. Their eyes are red resting next to a tombstone.