VULTURES

A newborn fawn crossing the road was struck by a car in Nicasio by the Druids' Hall where we had just put my late aunt to rest, and the turkey vultures wasted no time—so much for the carrion theory. This roadkill was fresh meat. They dined on its heart first.

The young deer mother, not clear on the concept of birth, let alone death, crossed and recrossed the road, puzzled, as if she'd left her handbag on a bus somewhere, but where?—to the consternation of speeding motorists.

Vultures everywhere taking flight and settling in. Huge burst of wings, as they landed on branches too small to bear their weight, they slid down and took flight, then lined up on the fence like chickens. Kicked their fleas, sharpened their beaks, looked at me quizzically.

I tried to get photos but they were too wary—no matter how still I stood, hiding behind the fence, they knew I wasn't dead yet. I found myself endlessly repeating: They ate its heart. They ate its heart first. The beginning of grief seeping in.