I saunter among this field, stick in hand
A shade covering my tongue, burned from sand

Sand…
Sand…
And sand…

Half so lively and barren, is this purgatorial clearing
Tall grass so stiff, ticking like broken clock hands
Far away, so baked the air, half a skull was leering

A buzzard, mangled with a shattered wing
Sizzling on the ground, this lifeless thing

Into the pit of its lost eye, a stream of hungry ants

Ants…
Ants…
And ants…

Coating the vulture dead with a living prickling black
Picking clean its beaked face and ghostly bone
Before returning to the hills, meat on their back
Down yonder, a beast, tired and tusked, all alone

Heaving from a breath, sharp and dry, it pants

Pants…
Pants…
And pants…

I stood and paused until a voice, it called
“Lookit this game! Don’t stand there and stall!”
“Lift up yer cap and load up yer boomstick!”
“Thing’s worth a fortune! So let’s git goin’, slick!”

A day it passed, from everything we gained
Nothing of the tusked beast remained

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An image of five vultures perching on a dead tree, looking for prey.
Vultures

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