As I was driving up the highway, I saw a flock of buzzards circling a kill some ways up the road. A deer, probably, pulverized by a late-night long-haul trucker that didn’t even notice the bump.

Then, coming in low and from the west, a jetliner coming in for its final approach at the regional airport. It turned, and for a moment it lined up perfectly with the vultures, seeming the right size and the right shape to appear as one of their flock orbiting a meal.

They hung there, together, in space, for a moment. A fraternity of flyers, elegant gliders, and all of them driven by death.

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