Mr. Buzzaaard, you wily turkey vulture—

my old friend—as I look up,

right now to me, you are summer,

and even more so

when I was much younger.

In my youth, your flight did please.

Now older, you have become more offending—

a sort of death-pending breeze.

Up high in the air,

you float above the land and the seas,

up high in the air,

you selfishly glide to find

those with needs in final death pleas.

Still, you are a signal of my freedom

to run in the dry grass without shoes,

a pendulum of the seasons,

alive you pronounce,

confirm, and strangely bemuse.

Down along the river,

a long search, a short cruise—

no animal wasted,

no food too abused.

You seem to enjoy to fly in a circle

with your weathered traveling friends,

when not squaring off

with too many other vultures.

Always testing your vision,

you have a careful, long look.

You try to avoid trouble.

Is it easier for you

with your death-mimicking shuffle?

Not even in your youth,

do you appear as fresh as others in suckle.

The older I get, the less harmless you appear—

a harbinger of death, My time is so much shorter.

My summers are held dear.

No time for fear. You are here.

Welcome back. Old friend? A little grass is green.

I am still alive as you can see—

run, laugh, and dream. Watch me be me.