Bird-watching is easy in countryside where there’s a lot of flat land, a lot of sky and plenty of clumps of brush or trees here and there for roosting and cover. Our recent expedition to Texas Hill Country was a great occasion for it, especially since the fences, power poles and trees that line freeways are both the perfect lookout points and display pedestals for local hawks and grackles and doves. Most distinctively regional among those winged wonders catching my eye as we drove down and back were the marvelous black vultures.
I love watching them, from the graceful, majestic soaring swoops and loops they draw across the broad planes of the sky to their awkward huddling in flocks on the massive transformer towers, to those rare and delightful closeups where I can get a better look at their funny mix of magnificent feathered eagle-like bodies with those wrinkly, wizened looking little heads and their bold hooked beaks. The sudden whuff-whuff as a large bird, unseen above my head on its light-pole perch, dove over me in a low arc to switch poles was like being fanned by the wing of a passing angel the other day. Clearly my intrusion on its territory wasn’t so distressing to the buzzard either, as he opted to land on the next post over and then sat surveying our party placidly even when my husband and I came and stood directly below to gaze on the magnificent creature. He felt exceedingly well fitted for the place, letting the cold drafts ruffle his feathers just a little as he sat gazing out at Canyon Lake under the lowering skies of the first of the year.
I call that a very good Texas omen.
Stratospheric Eventualities
Calm and measureless heights of azure Texas sky
Rise streaked with silent foaming white,
The broad hot blue patterned with these delicate
Ambling clouds that stretch to cover great distance at
A leisurely, attenuated speed, always slipping noiselessly
Across branch-tops, over the brazen sun, and into
The realms of seeming outer space, asleep
Though it should be at lazy midday
Suddenly this easy traffic is crossed
By a soaring, circling pair of
Dark metallic wings, the steely black of one
Great vulture passing through to catch
The updrafts and to cycle down, surveying
His kingdom plat by plat—he’s joined, soon enough,
By would-be kings, the other buzzard princes of
The wide blue air, who comb the same
Field of clouds with their own
Gunmetal-dark brace of wings
And after a time, these too are scattered abroad at the dash
Of two, then three, sharp triangles of louder, faster, sterner steel,
As fighter jets flash by in succession,
Pull together into a tight
Formation from their first sharp linear slash, and make
A single force with which they will unzip
The sometime quiet of that great wide sky
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