“Cam – come here! You’ve got to see this!”

Our grandson was here for an overnight and his Papaw couldn’t wait to show him the traffic jam on our road.

First I must share that Farmer Gary is fascinated by the concept of gridlock. The idea that traffic could come to a complete halt because the network of roads was full absolutely blows that country boy’s mind.

So when the few cars on our rural road slowed down to a stop, Gary knew he needed to share the phenomenon with Cameron.

“What’s that in the road?” queried Cam. At this point we three were gathered by the north-facing windows in our sunroom.

Gary’s response was almost gleeful. “See those huge birds? They are vultures. They’re snacking on a deer carcass. There’s a second row of them waiting to move in and they don’t feel like flying away every time a car comes by, so the drivers are waiting – and watching.”

That reminds me: A few weekends prior we’d had another traffic jam near our house. It was very dark and several cars stopped, flashers flashing, car occupants ran around the road, left, and returned. Just as Gary headed out to ask if they needed help, they departed a second time. The next morning Gary reported there was a dead deer in the ditch on the side of the road (no shoulders on these country roads). “The cars probably returned because they were hoping to take home some fresh venison – or at least the antlers.”

I tell you what. I’ve lived here for 42 years and still shudder at some of the locals’ “ways.”

Then it snowed, iced, and snowed some more. We forgot all about the carrion, by now snow-covered.

All was quiet while the snow lasted. But the thaw brought what felt like a miracle – a bald eagle. He was beautiful! Gary tells me eagles prefer hunting for their own fresh meals, but perhaps in all the snow and ice, a TV dinner was acceptable.

As a side note, did you know it was only recently that Congress officially declared the bald eagle our national bird?

And here I’d thought they’d taken care of that designation 250 years ago:

Back to present time: I grabbed our binoculars (thanks again to son James for the excellent gift), but within seconds the bald eagle had disappeared into the trees. But later that day, Gary told me he’d seen the same bald eagle, so it was gratifying to know neither had dreamed up the sighting.

A few days later, Gary delightedly pointed out the vulture traffic jam to Cam. We then got a lesson in which birds tend to eat roadkill. There truly is a pecking order (vultures are far more aggressive than buzzards), which I’ll spare you at this point. Suffice to say, though, if one of the vultures (or buzzards) were to keel over, their brethren would be delighted to feast on the tasty remains. No honor among thieves. None.

But wait – there’s more to this story! The next day, Gary told me the deer carcass was no longer in the ditch. The industrious vultures and buzzards had dragged it up into the field, so they could eat in peace.

Late that night, I was reading in the sunroom. All was quiet.

Until it wasn’t.

A howl. I heard a howl. Not a dog’s howl. A coyote’s howl.

And not just one coyote, and entire choir. A Handel’s Messiah-sized chorus. It was pretty wild.

I’d heard coyotes from a distance before, but this felt like the frat boys had come to call and were right outside the windows.

So I walked over to the door and looked out into the darkness. Too dark to see, but the howling continued in madrigal style.

That is, until I flipped on the outside light. Instantly gone they were. Silence returned. I was up reading for another hour or so, but didn’t hear another peep.

The next day, Gary reported the carcass was gone from the field. Chances are, the coyotes finished it off as a midnight snack, post concert.

It just doesn’t feel right to end a story without checking to see if Mom wrote a poem that might fit. Sure enough:

encampment

one is enough
but after snowmelt
a blizzard of buzzards
in the old oak

passing by
I pluck out possibilities
and know I will not stay around
for answers

~ joan vayo January 26, 1996

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“encampment” © 1996 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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