Vulture

(Written about the Civil War for a history class)

It tears the air.
The sound;
The scream of dying men.

It startles me
From my perch.
I take to the sky.

Looking down
Upon the field
Where Death touches the earth.

His cold hands
Brush my wings,
Ruffle my feathers.

Death’s hands
Are familiar.
A feast is nigh.

They say I bring death.
No; I follow him.
He leads me to my meals.

A flash of red
Is seen
Through the smoke.

I do not know why
They fight.
All I know is I shall soon be satisfied.

Their corpses litter
This field.
The green field painted red.

My throat aches
For the soft flesh.
I clean the dead.

It tears the air.
The sound;
The scream of dying men.