on a warm afternoon
up on the high hillside lot
close to the cliff drop,
I see rising beneath me
the bird,
wings spreading six feet,
head naked and red as blood,
white beak hooking invisible winds
to fill the creamy hollow of under-feather,
lifting on thermals
before my eyes,
when two small blackbirds
dive from unseen heights
and viciously caw as they peck
the black back.
Top guns, fighter aces;
these lords of the open sky
sharply turn as the heavy buzzard wheels
through dark pines.
I clutch my keys
and stay to watch the fight.
I want to see how, with curling feathers
and piercing rage
these small beasts
protect their living nest.
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