Dead Opossum

Wishes granted today

The horse and I walk down to his meadow and stop to watch a large turkey vulture tipping its wings on a thermal
before circling in and down and landing on the electric fence
slipping to the ground and sunning its huge wings in the paddock and then just as quickly up to nearby fir

I take the horse to the paddock and as we walk I see what the buzzard is eyeing
Opossum, freshly dead in the hogs-fuel arena
a thin grin of pointed teeth show around the still pink gums

I wince over its death and leave the horse to graze
Walking up the hill, I turn back and notice that the vulture has now landed on the carcass
Settling into the grass I watch from hundreds of yards away wishing I had binoculars

I walk closer and sit in the shadow of an alder
Far enough away to leave the scavenger to its feast
Close enough to have a view of the process

The first bird rips the belly open
and I imagine that the smell of fresh carrion is pulled up the thermals
two more birds join the event
one lands in the fir, the other chases off the first bird who joins the second bird in the fir

Two juveniles circle above and express their interest but make no attempts at a meal

The first bird opens its wings in the fir tree, stretches from wingtip to wingtip
and the wings must say something to the other birds about being huge and strong
because the juveniles fly off in search of an easier meal.

This commotion of stretched wings
and the masculine display of feathers
is too much for the female sharing the fir
she flies across the valley and takes refuge behind the mottled shade of an oak

The first bird, alone again in the fir
Swoops down to god's table
and the other bird does not fly off but steps back
as the female soars down and lands on the opossum spine

Her mate keeps the competition at bay as she gorges on intestines, fascia, organs
She shares scraps with her companion

All of this I watch for hours, until there is nothing left, not even bones
and all I can think of is the poem by Robinson Jeffers,

Vulture:

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit narrowing, I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, “My dear bird, we are wasting time here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.” But how beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him.
To be eaten by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes–
What a sublime end of one’s body, what an enskyment; what a life after death.

tell me more

I lose myself and the questions at the forefront of my mind which go unasked; I, too, lose thoughts and words that I imagined saved yet skip from the peripheries into the abyss of thoughts not-to-be-remembered; the quick shift of a key those words, thought safe, return to the sea of mind from which they sprang: Little lost, nothing found.

Tell me, tell me all that can be unspoken

Poets, who speak clearly with less

I am on a rampage: Tearing through anthologies, looking for a poet who says what is in my heart; if they say it, I won't have to expose my bones and I can pick over theirs.

Scavenger, that is me.

My arm tastes like minerals, raspberries, dust, sunscreen; I squint against the backs of my eyes and catch the sun's orb silhouetted against the lids.

The horse moves over the July grass in search of clover and shade. I sit astride holding a thin piece of rope that attaches to the leather of his halter. Sweating his hair mats and sticks to my bare legs. I wait, he eats, clouds and birds roll across our horizon