Old Buzzards

Yesterday we hiked across some wetlands,

up a hill into a pine forest,

then down through a steep canyon’s riparian canopy,

and up again on a trail fully exposed to summer sun

across grasslands to the top of a mesa,

where we sat on a bench and ate cheese and apples

we’d pulled out of our daypacks,

while overlooking the farms in the canyon below us,

the golden hills across the way,

the Pacific, half-shrouded with mist, in the distance.

We’d earlier seen buzzards soaring,

but now they got closer, circling,

one even swooping to ten feet above our heads,

peering down on us

with cocked red head, curious eyes.

In defense we joked in our

heartiest graveyard humor

about how bad us old guys must’ve looked

to lure these carrion seekers,

this clean-up crew,

that will get us yet.

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I've been writing mostly poetry for many years and have gotten a number of works accepted in publications and anthologies. I'm most interested in communicating with poets for whom craft is a high priority. I enjoy finding and commenting on poetic gems in other people's work. For my own work, I welcome polite comments, whether positive or critical.

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