Outside an autumn Festival, stopped on a back, dirt road.
I slipped out of my car, finger touched lips to hush my family.
Aimed my awkward camcorder, big as the buzzard
perched in the naked tree, wings expanded,
ugly and beautiful, ominous as a storm.
Look! my kids exulted.
The driver behind, another kind of buzzard,
His horn blared.
Magnificence vanished, flew into a sun-sharp sky.
Published in Verse Wrights