I do love watching vultures—amazing birds. When the first vulture landed, he was peering my direction. It was comical because the branch he landed on is so tiny, and he was such a big boy that it was bobbing up and down as if he were riding a possessed sea-saw. His head was contra-bobbing up and down as if he sought equilibrium on a bilious sea or he was doing the Egyptian.
It’s an overcast day, portent of rain, all the birds are flying low, even the ravens, the poor creatures have lost much of their habitat because of the fires. These young vultures—their heads are not red, but grey (I learned that from Geoff)—are intently watching the road. It could be that one of the chickens got run over. Again. Not the same chicken each time. But the chickens tend to get terribly excited when they’re let out of the coop, and, yes, Virginia, they do cross the road. And you know what that leads to.... Bugs, ya know.
I guess I’m safe for now. They flew off—the vultures, not the chickens. Did you know chickens can only fly for 13 seconds? All that white breast meat, they’re devolving towards flightlessness like the Carol dodo.
Perhaps I’m atoning for past sins. Once, long ago, I tried to scavenge some vulture wings. The cats sometimes left presents—dead birds at my doorstep. I figured, the least I could do was to photograph and draw them. Small ones, mind you. Not whole vultures. It began innocently enough—a yellow-shafted flicker took my breath away—he was my first real study. I’d never seen anything quite like him up close like that.
I’ve also scooped up birds struck down in the middle of backroads and given them more fitting burials. A bluejay, I couldn’t bear to see all that extraordinary blueness of sky lufting down the middle of the road. Ok, so maybe I did nick a tail feather or two for the dashboard. They help my car to fly down the road. Right now I have a fall bouquet of wild turkey, barn owl, bluejay, and raven feathers. Molly said it was a female barn owl. Hoo knows?
That vulture was dead, he didn’t need his feathers anymore. I tossed it in the back of my truck. I had planned to make an assemblage to Raymond Barnhart as an homage. What struck me was how hard it was to cut his wing off. The vulture’s, not Raymond’s. And the sheer size of those outspread wings was extraordinary. I took photos and left it at that. I was in over my head. I couldn’t even pluck wing feathers. But I did admire his strange beauty. His skeletal head. The dendritic perfection of those rows of wing feathers. I took my photos and then buried him in the orchard.
Katie astutely notes that today’s vultures are looking the other way. She says, If they turn around, start doing your jazz-er-size. I can’t tell if it’s allergies or if I’m warding off a cold. No fever. Congestion. A little achy. I’ve been scanning old negatives for days and one folder was quite musty. Photos of a bright lemon finchy bird struck down by a car, that I meant to draw, but never got around to it. And I began to sneeze horrifically yesterday—it could be allergies. Trouble is, I can’t tell until it’s too late. So I’m laying low. Not quite as low as those vultures would prefer, though.
Maybe I should go back and finish what I started, and draw that poor dead bird. Maybe then, Molly can identify it. The next folder I grabbed from my to scan pile, contained the negatives of Raymond’s vulture. Synchronicity works in strange ways. What would Lew Welch say?
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