Buzzards spin in the sky, swirl down,
stomp their feet on the ground,

and then, like a dozen pallbearers,
surround the body in the farmer’s field.

One bird tugs an ear and asks,
“How will we ever lift this to the skies?”

The nearest bird replies:
“We’ll divide it, it won’t be hard.”

And they proceed to unbind the flesh,
undress the body resting under the clothes,

as the youngest one complains,
“This is more than we can carry.”

“Just carry what is light,” an old bird tells him,
plucking an eye from its socket.

“Yes, we can only do what is our share,”
the largest bird says. “Look,

a heaviness already pulls it to the ground,” and
stepping aside, allows room for a shoulder to sag.

The birds pinch pieces in their beaks,
roll their red tongues back, and taste

the weight of their work.