Vultures in the Air

A drove of vultures swirls,
cursing the dreary daybreak,
sensing whiffs of irresistible
fresh fragrance of a new death,
in slow, symmetric circles,
over the parched paddy-fields,
beyond the hills of landfills,
past the forsaken flyover,
to clock their nosedives,
in one sudden, stunning swoop,
even as the first responders,
the eagles, and the opportunists,
the crows, feverishly stab their beaks
into the tender flesh of a frail,
bloodied, undraped, raped,
and butchered girl.

The unhurried vultures
can't be killed by hunger,
yet they are plunging now
at supersonic, shuddering speed,
for a smooth, bull's-eye touchdown,
before the lesser birds gobble up,
even as mongrels converge,
as beefy swines nose their way,
before rag-picking kids make a dash,
much before the last responders,
the clueless cops, and the savages,
the overnight rapists, show up
as cool bystanders.