Vultures dance,
Circling one another
With arched wing tips
Pointed skyward
Bending the stiffness
Of the evening breeze
Ominous figures sharp against
A pastel sunset
Bearing the elegance of death,
Descending towards
The ashen body of
A failed fawn
The cause of its
Expiration unknown
The sheath of the grain
Remains to be harvested by
These red-hooded scavenger priests,
These woodland wraiths
Accepting the sacrament
Of stilled flesh
The seizure of blood's
Mercurial passage
The wake continues their
Ruination vigil
Into the depths of night
As their silence
Reverberates
Through this cathedral
Of skeletal oaks
Where the light slips away
Like the spark from
A does' eye.
