closed-eyes

I can’t look.

A gang of black vultures are circling the manicured street I’m on, and I know they’re not here for the view.

I can’t look, but my eyes do. They race to find the crush of splattered guts and bloody fur on the asphalt. A possum hit by a driver who ran off in a fast car. Breakfast rises up in my throat. My belly trips.

The vultures whoosh in. The majesty and nightmare of their beating wings etched in the azure sky is a swirling dance of death so beautiful and macabre, I am electrified.

They surround the corpse and tear into it, feathers thrashing as they vie for the choicest cut. I watch as they stretch the dead body and yank it apart, ripping flesh from bone with the blades of their hissing teeth. I am sickened and have rarely felt more alive.

Human voices rise in and outside me. Cries of disgust, outrage and primordial fear. I see us in my mind’s eye, around the table at an all-you-can-eat buffet, gorging on the feast. My heart roars as grunting vultures line the shores of my inner beast. I will not look away.

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The tail-end of the meal, filmed by my husband. Most of the vultures are gone, having already had their fill.

Eyes by:  Ruiizu-Chan

For more posts about Roadkill, chew on these:

All Living Things 1 and All Living Things 2.

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GOOD NEWS FLASH: The people of my beloved city Montréal and the province of Québec have booted a divisive political party from power in a recent, landslide vote. While a woefully corrupt party will replace them, I rejoice in the fact that we are learning to use our voice and rocked the vote. Feel the power, people, SPEAK UP.

Happy 80th birthday, fabulous, feminist Gloria Steinam! Showing us the way.

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