4 blocks away from me is a Wake (!!!) of Buzzards
At first I was certain someone had died inside but nope; they are just choosing our little slice of paradise as headquarters for a bit. Apparently this is normal behavior but I’ll admit it’s a bit creepy.
I’m fond of saying We Are All Poop (“Food for Worms” Shakespeare says in Henry IV part 2 I think). A friend recently put up a poem on her Instagram – a truly bad poem. The feeling may be genuine but the language is dead. Picking thru the detritus of her thought, which of us is the Buzzard?
Ecbatan 