Song of the Turkey Buzzard

The next morning, a Sunday, laughter clung to the air as the group roused themselves, hilarity looking for somewhere to break out. Kayla crouched on the wooden porch like a monkey perched in a tree, grinning.

“Who are you grinning at?” Horner asked.

“Everyone,” she said, watching the others straggle slowly out of the house.

The sky, after the haze of Saturday, was clear, with a kind of crystalline quality that seemed to intensify the sunlight, so that one almost couldn’t see anything — colors bleached, objects vibrating. Horner tumbled down to the shed and chopped kindling, then wandered off into the woods to sit and meditate.

He found a wooden walkway that cut through the woods at crazy angles. Raised a few feet off the ground, it crookedly cornered around trees, continuing a surprisingly long way into the woods. Horner speculated that it must have been built to accommodate wheelchairs, and imagined it might’ve been constructed for one person in particular; a son returned wounded from war, perhaps. The project seemed so singularly obsessive that he felt certain it had been built by one person alone, an act of devotion, perhaps of penance. The pine boards had bleached a light brown with age, and tall grass sprang up here and there in cracks between them.

Must everyone be brilliant? thought Horner. It’s Sunday; normal people would be in church.

The woods consisted of tall, lonely pine trees, some of which had been cut down, perhaps victims of blight, so that plenty of light filtered down. Horner followed the walkway, noticing dew still on the ground in the shade, even at mid-morning. He took off his shoes and stepped carefully onto the wet grass and sticky pine needles. Immediately, as it had yesterday, everything changed. It was as though the world had been brought right up to his face.

He found a clearing and sat in the sun. Dropping his shoes on the ground, he sat on top of them, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. He tried to meditate. But thoughts, memories, images flooded his mind — as they always did. He thought: it’s easy to see how we sometimes believe this bag of bones and meat is all we are.

He ruminated on Milo’s offer to take him on a road trip. Milo planned to visit poet friends in Colorado, then head to Austin. Horner could ill afford the trip, either in time or money. And yet it was very intriguing. He imagined the beautiful country, swinging through Boulder, eventually seeing all his friends in Texas. Maybe he and Milo would finally figure out who they were to each other, become friends — real friends, whatever that might mean. But beyond that, Horner wasn’t sure what the purpose would be. For Milo’s part, he was about to lose his apartment the first of June. He had no other place lined up, so there was a sense of “To hell with it all” to the whole idea.

Try as he might, Horner couldn’t decide what to do.

Later, down at the beach, three buzzards inexplicably circled over him, sometimes swooping less than 20 feet away, wings nearly skimming the cliff’s edge behind him. Their wings were broad and leathery, feathers fanned out at the ends like fingers. Giant-hand birds. Now and then they flapped their wings, sounding like the snap of a great canvas sail.

Then they banked and circled in the air. One called out with a noise like a turkey, an elongated gobble. Horner glimpsed their flabby, red, turkey-like throats. A shiver ran down his spine, and for a wild moment he supposed they meant to attack him; were bent on lulling him to sleep with their slow circling. He wondered if this were an omen. He had not yet encountered Lew Welch’s poetry — had not read “Song of the Turkey Buzzard.” If he had, he might’ve understood the birds in an entirely different way. But for now, all they brought him was a vague sense of impending doom.

Horner dozed off, and was woken by a couple hiking down to the beach with a young son. Lying in the sand, the pair grew amorous while the toddler tumbled around before them. The man, lying on his stomach, grabbed and shook the woman’s flabby belly. She grinned at him through long bangs and sunglasses. He kissed her neck, rubbing her breasts with his other hand. Horner wondered if every childhood involved watching the father seduce the mother, growing jealous, learning to want things. The man, devoted to his love-making, seemed to revel in the proximity of not only his son, but the nearby Horner, though he avoided glancing up at him. The child finally did turn and stare at Horner, who sat on his rock smoking a cigarette.

Trying not to watch, Horner wished he were with someone, too. Or did he? When he thought back on the best times, he’d often been in a large group — sometimes with a lover, it’s true — able to flit between solitude, group activity, and intimacy, exploring levels of consciousness and conversation. Was this, ultimately, what he desired? And what of solitude? He never grew nostalgic for those times he’d been alone, quietly working — though ostensibly, this was why he’d moved to the City. Or was it? How on earth had he fallen in with this gang of artists and angels, and why?

The couple, sated, gathered themselves to leave. The woman puffed at a cigarette and muttered, “I ain’t seen that.” The man sipped a can of Miller Genuine Draft. The woman hoisted the child piggy-back style. The man, seeing this, turned to the child and said, “Hey, whatchoo doin’ up there?” The child again stared at Horner. Perhaps this was another message for him, like the buzzards; perhaps these were the buzzards, come back in human form to haunt him anew. Perhaps Horner was still feeling the effects of yesterday’s tea party. After a while, he picked himself up and walked back to the farmhouse.

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