The song of winter

Four vultures perch at various levels on branches of the tree in my neighbors yard by the edge of the road. There is irony we call it them a committee. Another name for them is a venue. They are stark shadows on the grey white winter sky---spotters, while a fifth picks at an opossum, semi flattened on the asphalt.

The cookies n' cream mountains in the background see everything. Closer to the sun, they keep their snow, buffeted by the wind. Deer run between them, crossing the yards in our hood. I leave scraps, whatever is left from our meals in the yard. It does not stay long.

The vultures rotate place, great black winged angels preying. Already they have taken its face, as if to say its nothing personal or clear their conscience. They make due with what they find, indiscriminate. I'll admit, I am fascinated & few cars pass, disturbing them.

SKiischhhKshhhccccccck, my son knifes through the grit and ice on his snowboard down the back hill, up over a skateboard ramp he's packed snow around & at the apex, leaps, twists, lands, holds it for a second then tumbles head, feet, snow. He stands, pops loose and begins to climb, racing the climbing heat of the day-fast stealing his playground.

I sit lotus in a dish sled, skiscchlide, find the same ramp & and bang down awkward---crack, snapping the aged brittle plastic, spill & roll into the bite of ice in my beard. It feels good.

SkiischhhKshhhcccccck, ugh, thumpAbumThrashhhh, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, SkiischhhKshhhcccccck, ugh, thumpAbumThrashhhh, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH, cRuncH,
the vultures watch us, watch the road, watch their brother snap at breakfast ---anticipating lunch if we crash bad enough, maybe.

Sorry to disappoint, we strip layers at the door, our cheeks rosy, ready for hot chocolate & i, black coffee---content in our dis-content with ever playing opossum.