When Buzzards Come
Death came knocking beneath the trees. I was on my way to the workroom yesterday when I interrupted a gathering of buzzards at their meal between the north fence and the big oaks and the sage. It was unexpected for both of us. They departed in a clatter. One hit its head on the tin roof of a small outbuilding in the yard next door. At first, I thought they might be gathering to roost, but upon investigation I found the remains of a fawn, a late birth by my reckoning. I had no idea how it came to be there, having seen no deer in the yard lately even at night.
It's no surprise an urban deer would chose that ground. I’ve purposely left the area beneath the big oaks wild to make the trees feel more at home, and I have tall grass in the yard as well for the wildflowers and the little varmints. An HOA would be mightily displeased with my yard, but I have one foot in the city and one foot in the country and outdoor cats to keep the snakes and mice at bay. It seems to be working, and I think it’s nice to look at although someone with tidier tendencies than mine might disagree.
I suppose at some point I’ll have to clean up what the buzzards leave, but I’ll give them a day or two, that’s why they’re around and they have to eat just like the rest of us. And I have raccoons as well, which may be how the little one met it’s end, and they work at night. I have no idea how the drama unfolded. But that’s what you get when you live in the urban country interface. Life. Wild. No excuses. You’re born. You live. You die. As humans, we like to think we’re special because we notice, but we’re not. If I were to die alone in the woods, the buzzards would come for me as well.