I worship the flesh
that decays below me,
ripening to perfection.
I praise the sun blessing my wings
and the drafts that support this effortless round,
this waiting, this prayer.
When the feast is ready,
I descend to feed.
Each beakful of meat unmakes what is,
releasing energy for what shall be.
With my humble plumage and bowed, bald head,
I could be a friar, carrying out the very last rites.