The horrible truth, felt,

finally spoken,

worse than death. Many times worse.

Sky fills with vultures, high,

dozens spiraling dozens, circles and circling.

Perhaps nothing so beautiful,

nothing before.

Large, black, some golden with angling sun,

every one of them alive with death,

their carrion feast,

every one of them, all, in flight,

wings extended and eyes bright, alive

in partnership

with Death.

Alive and flying, together, loosely

through sky,

floating and effortless,

in partnership

with Death and Wind.

Effortless.

Flying, floating, free.

And effortless.