I think of turkey vultures the weeks after the Trinity test, searching from 100 feet up right on the edge of the blast zone. Cows, coyotes, rats lie dead, burned from the inside, all those creatures whose fur turned white. Never has their grubbing search for food been easier, their world remade into an earthly paradise. In the air, they circle in awkward arcs, their flight so unsteady, they look as though they’re always about to lose their balance and fall to earth. Only, who needs to stay up there for long on a week such as this one when the land offers its feast?

alive, I am
as boring to these birds
as stones and desert sand

Bio: John Brantingham