I passed a cornfield in a stubble
Where five vultures sat in a semi-circle,
Their wings raised skyward
In praise of the sun’s rays.

Winter morns I sometimes stretch
My own arms to the sun,
Wishing it closer, warmer,
Seeking its warmth.

But never so solemnly
As these dark priests of death
Who daily circle the sky
Riding the thermals, those gifts
Of the sun, tending
To those who have left.