Have you observed the vulture,
just a speck up in the sky?
He sails around in circles,
waiting for his prey to die.

His talons are like knives,
his beak a handy shredder.
Weapons used to take no life,
but only make one deader.

He flies with empty stomach,
you know he’d like to fill it.
But still he waits for food to die.
Why doesn’t he just kill it?

So if patience is a virtue,
and indicates one’s culture,
The greatest of all birds
must certainly be the vulture.

In the country, where I grew up, we called them buzzards; but “A rose by any other name…”

I am always envious of the way that the vulture can ride the thermal updrafts and sail for hours without ever flapping a wing. Their view from those lofty heights must be awesome and their eyesight unbelievable.

One doesn’t have to envy their diet to envy their abilities; but my poem Consider The Vulture is not about vultures, it’s about patience. In this day and time when we get irritated if we miss our slot in a revolving door, it doesn’t hurt to contemplate patience.

A vulture has the same equipment as an eagle. If given a choice, as in captivity, the vulture will always choose fresh meat over spoiled. Some think that they are cowards. I prefer to think that maybe they’re just patient.