The Wake of Vultures

By Rutvik A. K.

Vultures — the symbol of death.
And so I went to the desert, hoping to see one.
Forty-eight hours later, I got a closer look.
The wake of Vultures.
Their bald heads.
The bare skin.
I wanted to touch them.
But they looked busy.
Their bent necks and clacking beaks,
They told a different story.
Probably munching.
I remained silent,
Lest I scare them.
As they gorged down another piece of meat,
An excruciating pain ran over my body,
While I slowly drifted off to sleep.
Maybe it was the blazing sun,
And not those scavenging beasts.

“Writing makes me feel alive.” – the writer

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