Riding the crowned asphalt
of August and the black pools
of heat mirages, the coarse sand
and wind-burnt junipers,
glades of aspen tongues
gasping in the wind, a land
scorned by god and prophets.
Everywhere there are signs
of failure: bankrupt farms,
belly-up barns and caved-in
shacks, farm houses scrubbed
raw and ramshackled,
orchards swollen with weeds
and bees and rotting fruit, traces
of roads swallowed by scrub.
As I crest Watersend hill
and coast into the valley
I spot the three black vultures--
big, bold and savage in their
reality, working a carcass
in the road. As I approach
they stiffen, indignant,
their ancient filled with disgust,
their cold eyes perturbed
by my insistent wheels.
Finally, as I rush upon them,
they bolt from the road in
slow savage wingbeats.
There on the ghost line
lay the remains of their
complaint: a deer head
no bigger than my fist,
fresh blood and splintered
bone spilt on the asphalt,
the head perfectly untouched,
glassy eyes staring, the body
obliterated. I ride by,
innocent of this grisly
murder, yet somehow stained
by the act of witness
as the vultures circle overhead
and swoop back down
to refresh their appetites,
this land is unrepentant,
like so much of us, it's best
to keep pedaling in the heat,
wipe the stinging sweat
from your eyes, and find
salvation somewhere, in
water, or god, or, if nowhere
else, some scavenger of love.
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