VULTURES #5

  by Cappy Love Hanson


The white-faced heifer, freshly dead,
that they passed on their way north 
three days ago, mounds up bloated now.  
Something’s gnawed the belly open--
bobcat, border-crossing jaguar--
coyote, most likely.

Now a dozen vultures hop-fly, pedal 
over one another, shoulder for space 
to dive their naked crimson heads 
into the half-eaten gore.  Three more 
perch along the ribs and neck, crops too full 
to fly, streak the black hide white with guano.

When she slows the car, greedy for this bit
of desert grit, her husband groans.  He lifts 
a foot across the drive train hump to shove it 
down on hers on the gas, then thinks 
better of it.  While he contents himself 
with studying the abandoned railroad bed 
across the highway--ties and rails hodgepodged 
like bones behind a slaughterhouse--
she simply nods at the vultures, says yes--
yes, to the truth that one day 
will gnaw them down to bones.