Projections

Dead or just practicing? Just practicing—look, his hand moves, along with one of those artificial feathers, writing, I like to think, about us, soaring over him, majestic, bareheaded to the wind and sky (unlike those white-wigged posers), the truly bald eagles of this land, courteously waiting till he’s quite finished to come down and gobble his liver, and yet never depicted on graves, coins, flags, advertising billboards, gladly taken by just about everyone for “hawks,” lest our circles be zeroes marking the closeness of corpses, as if he and his friends down there weren’t also, in their way, projections of the void, particolored mushrooms erupting from the decay, or, as I bet he's putting it, green stalks sprouting from the rich, dark soil, and retiring to it, having however looked up long enough to inspire this enriching conversation between us two, if you’ll forgive me, otherwise rather ordinary vultures.