seventeen black birds sitting on lamp posts
seven on this side and seven on that
and three down this side next to the four-lane
gazing all this direction bold as blue sky

hooked necks craning, marking them buzzards
not ravens, never saying ‘nevermore’
and Hitchcock in the passenger seat nods
appreciation, those birds are not his birds
and Kentucky sure ain’t Kansas, Toto!

so what the hell do you call a plurality
of black buzzards on Cherry Blossom Drive?
an omen? a vigil? or perhaps portent?
I wasn’t superstitious when I got in the car,
but now driving to work of a Tuesday,
I’m haunted by the echo of their refrain:

all day every day, life is Death’s buffet
every day all day, death is Life’s buffet.

12/10/23 dmpitchford