Buzzards over the Blanchard

Riding on the surface
of the Blanchard’s never ending flow
we float.

Navigating currents
our paddles dip deep into her body
steering round snags & boulders
through muddied channels
that curve by stands of oak
and fields losing their fallow
to spring’s green hope.

Overhead black vultures circle
searching for death’s delicious rot.

Passing endless eddies
our talk turns to end times,
to decimating epidemics
—apocalyptic tales
about black buzzards circling fields filled
with the bodies of
the last of us—

one big funereal feast
ending there in the bellies
of those black winged birds.

Later, they’ll shit us out,
greasy drips down the useless artifacts
of who we used to be.

Brenda Warren 2016

246

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