This first cool August morning draws us away,
Down the path where buzzards celebrate
An armadillo’s passing. They prey and pray,
Aware they will share their reeking repast’s fate.
It is a merry wake nonetheless,
Not sailing off until convinced we mean
To crash their party, having learned, I guess,
That humans mess things up. They flap to lean
Into the breeze like lines of lean black smoke
Above this smoldering mundanity
Called earth. Ashamed of death, they would revoke
The sentence, destroy the evidence clandestinely.
Exculpatory vultures clean our land
Lest the disease of death get out of hand.