I stood down below,
In the hush of warm wind,
Watching.
He climbed higher and higher.
I squinted my eyes to see him against the
Sky,
A speck I could barely hold in thought.
A Noiseless, Patient Vulture
Glides
Across the expanse of the blue sky—
A spectacle of grace above the
Mountain.
It hovers there,
Swaying like a glider in the air,
Circling,
Scanning and surveying the mountain
Floor—
Littered stones, lush brush, and the stillness of bone.
He sees me there, but he doesn’t
Mind.
He wouldn’t have come for my bones,
For I was still upright—a figure in motion—
Not worth the bother at all.
I can’t see his eyes, but he can see
Mine.
He then stood on a cliff’s edge rock
And let his wings rest,
Motionless above all that moved below.
That is what they do.
That is how they live.