The Vulture

Late afternoon, he lazily flies
His silhouette figure dotting the sky
Blackest of wings, pinkest of head
From his cloud canopy, spotting the dead
Slouching in groups, over newly found kill
Tearing at flesh, until they've had their fill
They awkwardly flap 'til they're back in orbit
Their backs toward the sun as its blackness absorbs it
Magnificent, though we hardly acknowledge
They're so much more comely than horrid or savage
Cleaning the earth of it's fallen expired
Their job is done well, yet scarcely admired
Eclipsed by the birds that sit in our trees
Bright, crimson cardinal, or brown chickadee
Yet forgotten is the figure in the skies of blue
Is the vulture not splendid and beautiful, too?