Buzzards on Branches
At dusk they look like big black shriveled prunes,
stuck to the dead branches of the tallest trees
as they settle in to sleep.
But in early morning, when the light is new,
they remind me of wrinkled leather hats that have been
carelessly tossed on the hooks of a coat rack.
A sudden noise lifts them,
sends them swirling,
as if they were caught up in a strong gust of wind.
They circle around and settle back in and down,
slow and graceful, patient,
choosing the perfect branch to perch upon,
talons curling and clutching, locking them on.
The rustling of their wings
as they spook and return
sounds like an old umbrella
opening and closing.
Up and down, out and back.
From their vantage point
high above all, in the branches there,
they are sentries,
keeping watch,
on guard.
They keep me company,
and remind me
that we,
all of us,
have a purpose.