A little late, and a little light on picture, this is my Friday Fiction post, albeit it’s now Saturday. Since I’m away from my usual computer and internet connection, I can’t post the picture, but I thought I’d leave the words here for now and be back in a few days to beautify the post. As ever, comments are welcome, especially concrit.
From forty feet above, on his bare-branch garret, the buzzard surveys his tundra lands. His rodent people scamper from sparse cover to sparse cover under his imperial gaze. King and God. Their attempts at self-preservation are based on credulous practices: offerings on sacred rocks, tenuous prayers and habits – each according to the traditions of its breed.
But the buzzard pays no heed. He is guided by his own faith. He knows the best offerings to appease his personal gods – the hunger that growls inside and the noisome offspring without. At last, his attack deified by speed, he swoops.