Driven Off by Wind
John Grey

Wind topples a vase of dragon-flowers
that chatter furiously but silently,
their panic only too real
as they lap at water dripping
off the garden table’s edge.
You sit astride the hulk of a broken-down tractor,
waiting to be knocked down yourself,
the air already at that familiar speed
that’s been driving folks off their land around here.
Your skin’s so dry, so leathery,
a solitary tear feels like a downpour,
as you listen to chatter from beyond the grave:
remember old times, the pleasure
of land’s giving and taking,
weather ornery sure
but topsoil rich enough
to grow generations.
Then there’s this sudden contrast,
your failed crops, your overdue mortgage payment,
all whipped up by a bout of freak wind,
your hands holding on tightly
to so many others’ fingerprints,
ancestors who gripped the wheel,
oiled the engine, sharpened the blades.
Then three turkey vultures appear,
out of some other time, some other place,
drawn by that same wind,
and your last stand
in the saddle of wrecked machinery.
They’re ready to make a home here
which you can no longer do.
For they’re in possession of the right tools:
beaks for pecking carrion,
noses dulled enough to pooh-pooh the stench.
So the exchange is made.
Their gruesome breath for your withered heartbeat.
Their future for the time it takes
to pack up the last of you and leave.