Buzzards, at least ten, circle overhead,
swoop down, and land in the pasture
to gorge themselves on the decaying
carcass of a fat raccoon.
The birds pick the bones clean
then lazily fly away
untroubled by thoughts of anything
that could hinder their flight.
The scavengers soar into the heavens
at will, leaving me to envy
such utter freedom untaxed
by all that holds me earthbound.
Author Bio:
I love poetry. I love to read, write, and talk about it. I am particularly fond of form poetry. I have Parkinson's Disease, and the limits of formal poetry help keep my mind alert.
swoop down, and land in the pasture
to gorge themselves on the decaying
carcass of a fat raccoon.
The birds pick the bones clean
then lazily fly away
untroubled by thoughts of anything
that could hinder their flight.
The scavengers soar into the heavens
at will, leaving me to envy
such utter freedom untaxed
by all that holds me earthbound.
Author Bio:
I love poetry. I love to read, write, and talk about it. I am particularly fond of form poetry. I have Parkinson's Disease, and the limits of formal poetry help keep my mind alert.
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