Vultures, We All

Vultures might not be so distasteful as was previously thought.

It was a gloomy, thick blanket of clouds that enveloped the atmosphere as I walked, filtering the sun’s magnificent rays into gray-blue shadows, dampening my vision of the interminable backroad. Forest surrounded me on either side of this path: tall, looming pines reached far into the suffocating fog above, and small dead needles obscured the patchy dirt of the ground. I treaded about a yard or so from the leftmost side of the concrete. Thus far, the only sound I had been able to detect, save for the rare hoot of an owl or the odd rustle of some hidden woodland animal, was the shuffling of my footsteps upon the mixture of gravel and twigs littering the road-shoulder. This quietude was soon interrupted.

The sharp hiss of some unidentifiable origin brought my attention to the dark, shifting mass about twenty yards ahead of me, a strangely moving entity of unknown makeup perched on the edge of the street. Fearful, I paused; squinting my eyes and holding my breath, I focused upon the thing, hoping to understand what I was looking at. I recognized the familiar event soon enough.
 

Ah. Vultures. They must have found their prey. A twinge of resentment filled my bosom.
 

Upon nearing the scene, I was able to catch glimpses of the coveted victim, however, this did not enlighten me of its species any more than before. It was a messy shell of wet fur and thin bones: this was all I could assign. Whatever killed it (likely a vehicle, considering its position) must have done so in a most violent manner. I had a feeling that even if I were to view it from all angles, I would not have been further illuminated— the darkness of the sky combined with the absolute state of its body concealed any revelation. Drawing within ten or so yards, I stood quietly, transfixed by the large birds of death, unsure of my fascination.
 

What an utterly depressing end, I mused. Murdered, then picked apart by vicious vultures, with no decorum or coverage. Alone on the side of a road. This creature had no ability to defend itself, no means to demand respect. It could not be buried or prayed over. Its carcass, mauled so intrusively that it was past recognition, was free game to those who would wish to further defile it. A shiver ran down my spine at this understanding. I watched the vultures move to and fro, squawking territorially at one another, frequently hopping in an aggressive manner when one got too ambitious in its ravaging. Lowly thoughts ran through my mind. These cowardly yet entitled animals seemed truly void of any noble traits.
 

I focused my sight upon one in particular. This bird was slightly larger than most of the others; I assumed it was a female, as I knew many of such birds displayed reverse sexual dimorphism. It used its long curved beak to prod and tear at the muscle of the creature, employing the occasional talon… yet, I noticed, she didn’t appear to be swallowing her pickings in the same fashion as her compatriots. Rather, the meat, forming small lumps in her throat, went no further than the visible gullet, coming to rest in a growing pouch. I realized that she must be collecting food to bring back to her young.
 

A sudden image of youth, of tenderness, flowed through the cracks of the pessimistic ruminations of my mind. The vulture, selflessly denying herself food, struggling to support her needy chicks. Small, soft, fluffy baby birds, squeaking for their mother’s attention. Innocent and helpless. Like a newborn crying for milk, as I had once done. I saw the face of my own mother and sighed, looking down at my dry hands.
 

Perhaps in another life, these fingers held talons rather than uselessly clipped nails. Perhaps in another universe, I searched anxiously for the dim presage of roadkill, urged on by love for my children and a desperation to survive. The true luxury of my status dawned upon my wakening thoughts.
 

My loud exhale must have alerted these birds of my presence, for they abruptly scattered and flew off in awkward motions, screeching and flapping wildly in their departure. The pines rustled, and the crackling of a few falling sticks echoed weakly through the air; after this, I was left completely isolated once more, apart from the unpleasant lump of death upon the road ahead. Blinking and pursing my lips, I resumed my path, holding my breath for a moment when I came too near the odorous pile.
 

I lifted my eyes to the sky and could faintly make out the figure of one of the vultures before it disappeared into the dark horizon of trees. I silently wished it good luck on its journey, and, on the chance that it was that mother bird, I wished a blessing upon its children, too. For how else should I regard another creature, full of life? One day that bird would also meet the peace of death, and its body would return to the land, to be used by the other animals that roam the forest, to be consumed by the insects and bacteria of the ground, giving its existence a guaranteed meaning and purpose. Similarly, I shall be swallowed by the earth.
 

Through this fiercely inevitable mortality, I understood the brown pine needles below my feet, the sobering carcass in my wake, the fall of the sun into the embrace of night, the limited blood that flowed within my aging veins. Good luck to you, vulture, as to all of us that scavenge degradingly below the sight of Heaven.