BUZZARD Ten turns above the woods and then a sliding fall deep into the breeze. The buzzard passes shadows back and forth like a spider working thread. A web for all the dead, cast everywhere. And when she climbs, hauling her quiet looping steps sunward, I am pulled towards her rise, coasting wings fixing my eyes higher and higher. She must hear, blown to those altitudes, little things: breath slowing, the least surge of blood, the eye straining upward in its socket to see through the skull.