Griffon Vulture at the Royal Amsterdam Zoo

                                  I

The vulture was caged, perched on a wooden pole

with its dark back to the sun, soaking in warmth,

placidly waiting. I’d lost track of time but the flap

of wings pulled me from a momentary trance.

I was transfixed, a strange accomplice to my solitary 

friend, who, as if acknowledging me, spread its vast wings 

and took flight, lifting the steel bars,

filling the cage with sky.

It was like being in the presence of a lover—

not just any lover, but my perfect love,

neither bird, nor human, just a soul

that knows the secrets of the long hours of waiting—

the difference between ‘waiting’ and ‘waiting

for something you know will happen’,

that could have waited all its life

for me to die. What better proof of love,

than taking the time, accepting,

and when the hour comes, facilitating my passing.

And standing there transfixed, I saw           

my angel of death perched on a pole, 

stoop down on me,

devour my coral flesh,

pick my carcass clean.

                              II

Second time here, I went straight to the scene:

a pair of vultures on a rock, mating 

and mating again. Each time the male 

perched on the female, his enormous wings 

enveloping her, he let out deep guttural grunts,  

a dog-like, subterranean growl.

The crowd below stood mesmerized,    

awed by the raw beauty of the act—

oh they’re so cute, my little girl said.

A feather flew out the cage,

an ode to their bygone tandem flights.

I clutched the stiff vane,

caressed the downy, lower parts  

so soft to the touch, almost imperceptible,

a whole world in my fingers, 

my talisman.