The Gift of Vultures

It is Christmas and the vultures come
as they yearly come:
three hundred strong to these trees.

The trees where they perch are oak
and their droppings chalk
the macadam of the road underneath.

I wonder, since I know what they eat,
how they stay so long,
several weeks in the middle of winter.

And why these particular trees,
here at this curve in the road.
And what came first: birds, trees, or road?

They are such strange birds.
They pay no attention to cars,
but heave up and fly

or bow and open beaks wide,
as if to vomit
when a child, dog, or cat wanders by.

Now, shadows of these birds detach,
loom large as planes,
slide silent between the dark trees,

across live grass still green and a winter sky
absorbing last colors of evening.
I turn to see

excited small figures approaching:
Look up! Look up! They are pointing. See!
Our Christmas vultures are flying!