The Vulture's Memoir
April: When the carnal meets the vernal
Greetings, readers: Here’s my contribution to an evening of poetry, verse, and music celebrating National Poetry Month and Poem City here in Montpelier, Vermont, a few days ago. Also, please scroll onward to the spring beauties below and my note to Chasing Nature’s paying subscribers. Thanks!
GRANTED, I’m not an early bird. I sleep through the confetti of warblers at dawn, and then doze with one eye open to the humans below me going about their rituals.
After all, in April, not until late morning does the sun prepare my zephyrs. Only then, from my perch on a big white pine by the quarry, do I launch and float on rounds — to seek the day’s fresh carrion.
I am the bird of death.
Or so they say.
Flight activates my senses — by now I’ve lost track of how many.
In the outrage of a kinglet and the flare of a hazelnut, I welcome April’s crimson fireworks.
In the dewy song of a Hermit Thrush, the American nightingale, I hear longing, desire. Maybe loneliness.
In the air I can taste mud and earthworm, last year’s rotting leaves, and purification in this year’s maple steam.
When the grouse pounds his chest, he beats a rhythm in me as well. We vultures are tuned that way — we sense the world in our blood and feathers and hollow bones.
And yet it is written that most acute is my sense of smell. It’s how I find food. And not just roadkill. Roadkill’s easy — and frankly I don’t like to be seen around roadkill too often because people then dismiss me as merely a scavenger.
Okay, I get it: A swan I am not. But I can smell the lies of a weasel and the promise of wild leeks. I inhale butterfly perfume and salamander desire.
And I can smell the fear in you.
Yeah, the world can be harsh and scary. You don’t need to hear that from me. Certainly not now. But it’s the only world we’ve got — the only one. So don’t waste time. Beyond that, well, sorry, I don’t have much advice for you — I’m just a vulture after all. (Well, okay, maybe check for ticks and stop with the doom-scrolling.)
But I will say this:
It’s spring. The wood frogs mate in roadside ditches. Wildflowers bloom in naked woods. Children laugh in the schoolyard. So don’t miss it. You’ve got common sense — and senses of your own. Use ‘em.
At the very least, once a day, stop what you’re doing. Look up. I’ll be there — an ugly head on tender wings. A messenger, a reminder.
I am the bird of death.
Or so they say.
Inspiration for this essay comes in part from the poetry of Charles Finn, especially “The Memoir of a Raven,” published in his collection with photographs from Barbara Michelman titled “On a Benediction of Wind” (and with gratitude to
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Among the perks of your paid subscription is direct email access to me. So if you write, I will read. And I’ll do my best to respond in the podcast episode. Even if podcasts aren’t your thing, Substack has nonetheless made it easy to listen. My episodes are here. I’ve also started a Substack Chat where paying subscribers can submit their questions. Thanks!
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Thank you! I adore these birds. My dad said after he died, he wanted to come back as a vulture. My mom, his ex-wife, commented, "Once was not enough?" We all laughed, my dad included. Now they all make me think he's still here. Amazing birds.
I hiked w/ my boys to a vernal pool last Friday night to listen to the "peep show." Nothing makes me happier than these tiny toads & their frisky business. Mating in roadside ditches--that line delights me. Thank you for your good work.