Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the Church of the Bountiful Buzzards! I'm Pastor Annie, priestess of the putrid since 1975! Wing it! The sky's the limit!
With wind speeds in excess of 40 miles per hour today, the time seemed right for a little worship of the Holy Sacred Thunderbird, Golden Purifier, a.k.a. buzzard. So I took my little Dodge, and my daughter The Heir, and we went to Wenonah to praise and worship. (Well, I praised and worshiped. Heir just went along for the ride.)
Wenonah is the winter residence for a huge flock of turkey and black vultures. They scour the countryside during the daylight hours and then return to Wenonah's mature pines to roost. There are easily 200 birds in this cohort. Maybe more.
It's funny how you don't see a buzzard for miles around, but the minute you pull up in Wenonah, they are chock-a-block everywhere. Today they were positively playing in the wind. Figure it out. If the wind is gusting at 40, and a bird is flying with the wind, how fast is that bird going? Those buzzards looked like they were having fun. All hail!
When Heir and I left, most of the flock had settled into the pines, where they pack themselves in tightly. (I haven't figured out yet how I can persuade Mr. J to move to Wenonah, but I want to do it.) I said a prayer to them, to make me healthy, wealthy, beautiful, and carefree. And like anyone else who prays, I expect them to deliver.
Now, secure in the vigilant care of the Holy Sacred Thunderbird, I'm going downstairs to read a front page New York Times story about faulty hip replacements, courtesy of the company that supplied the one inside me. But I have no fear. I'll carry on until I'm carrion ... and then, home to the vultures I go.