A Tale from Old Buzzard’s Youth

by Eric Chaet

Buzzard hears of a tribe that worships him,
skims hillside & forest,
& soars high in slow circle
of observation & contemplation.

Below him,
villagers flying kite in his image,
burning incense, laying out sacrificial meat.

Touched by the meat,
he dips a wing & drops straight down.

But villagers shoot arrows
& yell, No! No! Holy meat for holy buzzard!

Buzzard rises up,
dives,
catches & crushes kite-buzzard in talons,
shits on several archers & a priestess,
scoops up meat, & eats with clenched brows
in limbs of huge cactus, deep in Southwest.

Makes him so sick, he pukes 2 days.

Said the old buzzard Old Buzzard used to call Old Buzzard:
The art of forgetting is the radius of circle-soaring,
slow, slow, in blue geometry of sky & bird.

///

Also posted online @ Poetry Dispatch and other Notes from the Underground (USA), Beyond the Pale (Ireland & France), and Emerald Bolts (Ireland).

///

metanoia composure series

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