The Vulture

He wings a slow and watchful flight, His neck is bare, his eyes are bright, His plumage fits the starless night.

He sits at feast where cattle lie Withering in ashen alkali, And gorges till he scarce can fly.

But he is kingly on the breeze! On rigid wing, in careless ease, A soundless bark on viewless seas. Piercing the purple storm cloud, he makes The sun his neighbor, and shakes His wrinkled neck in mock dismay, And swings his slow, contemptuous way Above the hot red lightning's play.

Monarch of cloudland--yet a ghoul of prey.