Circling

Circling

Circling
Circling

Circling like a vulture eyeing out kills,
grey clouds masking the truth,
he’s really just alone in his pirouettes
a partnerless predator.
Scavenging with a cock-eyed smile,
he loops beneath the sun, or moon, or stars;
one bright object is as good as another,
until spying death.
He swoops, wings furled,
a torpedo given animalistic form,
an avian abnormality,
riding the thermals of others heat,
down, down, down, always down.
The carcass lays sprawled
eyes glasslike, a glazed apparition
of so many before.
He strikes, beak wetted,
not at the blood of another
but the watered-down reflection
of himself.
He’s dead, he just doesn’t know it yet.
He’s dead,
and by he, I mean me.
The circling begins anew.

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