Twentyminutesmeandered past
beforemynapwasinterruptedby
anothershotfromdownriver,and
againI openedmyeyes.
Stillnothing... butthatdarksliver
intheskyabovehadnowbeenjoined
bytwomore.
“Arethosebuzzards?Theremustbe
somethingdeadnearby,”I thought,
asmyeyelidsgrewheavyoncemore.
Butsleepwassuddenlyinterruptedby
twomoreshotsechoingupstreamin
quicksuccession,muchcloserthan
theearlierones.
Myeyesjerkedopen,scanningmy
surroundingsasI triednottomovea
muscle.Theskyallaroundwasstill
empty,andasI expandedmyrange
ofvision,I caughtmovementstraight
overhead.
Andtheretheywere,lessthana
hundredfeetdirectlyabovemeand
slowlycircling—atleasta dozenbig,
black,breakfast-hungrybuzzards,
their wingsspread wide as they
slowlyinterlacedtheirinvisiblearcs
intheclearbluesky.
theLordmanytimesoverthathe
chosetomakemea maninsteadof
a buzzard.BecausetothedayI die,
I’llneverforget their suddensur-
priseandtheabjectdisappointment
andchagrinintheirbeadylittleeyes
whenI slowlyanddeliberatelyrose
withmyshotgunandmypaddleand
a bighairygrinofmyownfromthe
bottomofthatoldcanoeandbade
themall,“GoodMorning!”
Someturnedsouth,someturned
north,andsometurnedwherever
thevagariesof thebreezesdrew
them.Buttheyallturnedtailinslow
expressivearcsoflonging—dole-
fullylookingbackovertheirhungry,
hunched-upshoulderswhilecasting
emptygazes ofdespondencyand
dismayinmydirectionastheysadly
soaredaway.
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All of them seemed to be sporting
neat little red-checked table napkins
tied tightly around their thick, scruffy
necks, with knives and forks and
shakers of pepper and salt lovingly
clutched in their ghastly grey feet.
They were smiling ear to ear at one
another as they circled, with hungry,
self-congratulatory grins of appro-
bation smeared across their hairy,
furrowed faces, and their quivering
beaks and buzzard lips were dripping
in anticipation of this unexpected
meal now so opportunely laid out
below them as their rapt attention
and eager gazes of expectancy collec-
tively focused on... ME!!!
Occasionally, one of them would
split from the main posse and come
dipping and diving earthward, as if to
evaluate and confirm the mortal sta-
tus of their intended table d’hôte and
testing to make sure I met their strict
culinary standards, until they finally
began pouring en masse from the sky
in my direction.
Since that morning, I have thanked
wildfowlmag.com September 2019 | WILDFOWL Magazine 103
FOWL THOUGHTS (CONTINUED FROM PAGE 104)
