Cloud Busting Poem by Peter Black

I take my finger and follow the line
Of a vulture in blue, direct and on point,
Seeing out something that has or will die,
For a moment a black cloud chokes the light;
But the sun screams and with a burst of rays,
Cooks the clouds out mist and it weakens gray.
Not one, or ten, but a hundred I see:
Scavenger birds circling their fresh feast.
They descend in woods, the sun disappears,
The smell of consumption makes my nose hairs feel,
For a moment—but the sun comes back strong,
In the sounds of heads in flesh making songs;
It awakens the blue, and heat sets the way.
The birds rise, fly, and on line drift towards shade.