Time was you never saw them here. These days
They’re everywhere. They haunt the trees; with eyes
That glitter cold and pitiless, they’ll gaze
At me a moment, trying me for size,
Then seem to shrug and insolently drift
Into the air on wide, dark-fingered wings.
On sunny afternoons, the thermals lift
Them, lordly, over we poor earthbound things.
And from those circling specks a keening cry
Resounds; an echo of the age before
Our persecutions swept them from the sky.
Defiant, they have claimed these lands once more.
A whisper from the wildwood; and I yearn
For more than just the buzzards to return.