not too much light left,
the evening pinking,
then we're startled
by the flash of black wings,
the rustle of wind rising,
and aloft soar our visitors plucked from other forests,
other habitats,
and deposited here in our pines,
so the moaning we hear is
not just the wind,
not just the pine straw,
but the chortling
of our vultures,
waiting for roadkill.
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