Of Feasts and Clouds

Driving East on 109, I saw a roadside buzzards' feast interrupted,

leaving a broken buzzard to take its place in the banquet of the dead,

while up ahead, clouds of orange dust gave witness that the woman on her riding mower was mowing more dirt than grass, to which my dog never gave notice, as he was looking out the window, pondering the strange dogs behind the fences mooing their odd barks.