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RAVI SHANKAR
Buzzards
Gregarious in hunger, a flock of twenty
turn circles like whorls of barbed wire,
no spot below flown over uncanvassed.
The closer to death the closer they come,
hesitant on wings with keen impatient
perseverance, dark blades lying in wait
until age or wound has turned canter
into carcass or near enough for them
to swoop scrupulous in benediction,
land hissing, hopping, tearing, gorging,
no portion, save bone, too durable
to digest. What matters cannot remain. 
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