The buzzard waits in his tobacco colours
hunches on the grey rim of a galvanised trough.
Waits and watches like a judge in the courthouse
life and death in a taloned balance, chills
in the morning sun. Yellow fields
that seem to be waiting, a bruise
in the face of the low sky that gets
closer, you can feel its touch
as you pass on through.
The weather man says
sun, storms, snow:
an improbable forecast so
strange it must come true.
Later, lightning and blue thunder
in an afternoon blizzard.
And the buzzard still waits
in his invisible tobacco colours.