Interrupted, the vulture lifts its red head
from a handful of fur and watches my pickup
approach up the road, just ahead of the dust
I’m towing behind me, and it reluctantly
opens its heavy plowshare wings, like a man
who opens his old black coat to show the police
he isn’t armed, but it’s already too late for
surrender, and he turns and runs, his coattails
dragging over the road as with weary effort 
he hefts his hunger into the air and flaps away,
and in my rearview mirror, I watch him fly out
over a field and slowly circle back and sweep
back down, his shadow flying just behind him
through the dust, then both of them folding
their wings as they step down out of the air
and look around, and settle into finish.