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.