The vultures have returned

from distant winter shelters,

their broad arms now stirring pale spring skies.

Between mesa and hilltop, there’s a valley

and her thighs cradle winds

soul-driven to buoy those dark ones,

to bring them in circles, mixing pollen and dust,

whisking insects far below

to petals low and wide.

The languages spoken meet human ears

only as whistle and snap,

but the Others, they carry conversations

over whole continents.

It can be seen in outstretched wings,

high in leafless cottonwoods,

of vultures at sunrise.

In silence, before the world wakens,

if we stand with the trees,

our bodies hear their words

and join in the call and response,

without thought, instinct recalled.