Beneath cobalt sky, unmarred by clouds, the fallen creature has waited two long weeks on a neighbor’s hillside, still as midwinter silence while its kin pass by, acknowledging neither life nor death.
Early March hangs in abeyance between seasons: breath visible, ground softening beneath. The turkey vulture perches patient on bare branches, observing time's slow procession.
No competition here. No urgency. Under a bright sun, the dark-feathered keeper shifts branches, moving closer, reading invisible signs —when flesh surrenders its final resistance.
Down it drifts, a floating shadow crossing light, black-winged angel landing beside stillness. A moment of reverence—or perhaps assessment— before the sacred work begins.
Persistent probing, the mindful search for openings, for a softness yielding to purpose. Finding none, it turns to the backside, a dark gateway, yields first, a grim communion, beginning the slow inevitable transformation.
Tugging at underbelly fur, seeking entrance beneath, as sunlight warms what winter had preserved. High cirrus clouds now witness the odd tableau, an ancient ceremony repeated since before memory.
The deer has nowhere else to go. The vulture has nowhere else to be, then flies off, perhaps to return. The crocuses peek up through last Autumn’s leaves with patient certainty, as death, once again, makes way for life.