The vultures circle again today,

reminder of being wanted,

and of the transit and habits

of want, the ascent of the heart.

The heart climbs a hill, does not

have a vulture’s view—

which is a god’s eye view,

but with wings and sight and scent.

You are mostly bird, he said.

Mostly leaf, I think.

The vultures used to bring

a pang of grief: a calf born too soon.

Children, we would lay down

in a field or along the road,

wait for the grey birds

to come for our bodies.

But they never came;

they were never interested.

Now the vulture is a heart

flung up, it circles when it sees

nothing. Then it circles again.

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