thegrassinthecracks:

High in the sky,
Far above the ground,
Twirling, spinning,
Like a ribbon caught in the wind,
The vulture flies,
The scent of blood,
Sharp and metallic,
Strong in the wind,
The vulture twirls,
Lower and lower,
Closer to the potential meal,
Finally it lands,
Waddles towards the carcass,
Limp and bloodied,
Crumpled on the ground like a discarded wrapper,
Then begins the frenzy,
More vultures,
Hundreds of brown-feathered wings,
Flustered, desperate beaks,
Hungry for meat,
Fighting, pushing,
Feathers flying up like plumes of smoke,
Desperate for a meal,
Then, as quickly as it started,
It ends,
Bone stripped clean,
Hunger not yet quenched,
The search begins again.