Carrion On

So buzzards are beautiful. Well, not in the face. I mean, they’ve got that nostril that kind of goes all the way through, but otherwise, beautiful. Because they are perfect at what they do. The scavenging part. The flying part might need a little work.

Like the other day, there was this squirrel who had made the mistake of trying to cross a six lane highway. He had either made it all the way to lane five or died in lane two. I don’t know which direction he was going. It’s really not important to anyone but the squirrel. Anyway, I was going to turn left into that very lane, but while I was waiting for the light, a huge turkey buzzard dropped down out of the sky and dragged the squirrel off into lane one (or six, depending). Awesome. Now the buzzard is chowing down and he and the squirrel are out of the way.

Until I make my turn.

Instead of taking what seemed to be the obvious route and jumping up on the sidewalk, the buzzard takes two lurching hops and tries to get airborne, right over my car. I fully expected to have a turkey buzzard hood ornament, but at the last second, the wind caught him and lifted him up high enough for me to pass underneath. But he must have circled back after I left. When I drove by that same spot later, nothing was left of the squirrel but a scrap of fur that a crow was busy doublechecking for morsels.

The next day, I noticed a dead opossum on a different street. I fully expected to find a buzzard taking care of business when I returned a few hours later, but no. Instead, there was a bloated, fly-ridden monstrosity, twice its previous size. No birds anywhere, but more insects than you could shake a stick at. But that evening, I discovered that not one but three buzzards were gathered around, like friends at a coffee table, eating rotted possum and discussing it between bites. I swung wide to miss them all. Two of them looked at me with disinterest, but the third buzzard took off, making that same slow motion turn toward the car that the other buzzard had made, just barely clearing the hood, displaying all the beige and brown and black feathers on his wings and tail. If I hadn’t been trying so hard not to kill him, it would have made a great photo. Which would have been followed by a less great photo of my windshield covered with buzzard bits. Still, though, he was an impressive-looking bird.

And now, just like with the squirrel, there is only an empty bit of possum fur left. No grossness, no stink, no flies, just that tiny bit of fur. Somehow those buzzards ate everything. And I thought, you know, maybe buzzards aren’t so bad after all.

Now if only they would learn how to fly.