Buzzard: (n) a large hawklike bird of prey
Sometimes I find myself discontent with my status and very fussy about my being.
You know what I’m saying? Every once in a while, each one of us gets in a mood to buy some watercolors and try to paint a picture. Even though the experience may be pleasant, the results of the painting adventure need to buried in the back yard.
Yet what often causes me to recover from my spiritual swoon is considering how fortunate that I am not another type of creature.
I would despise being a cockroach.
Being a rat living in the sewers of New York City seems uncomfortable.
And I wouldn’t want to be a buzzard. Job description: flying around the sky all day long looking for dead things. Sometimes really, really dead things–so I can eat.
Now, I know that hamburger is just the remaining flesh of a cow, but when you add some ketchup, pickles and onions, it can be quite good.
Buzzards have to land and pick the bones of the dead.
I don’t want to be a buzzard. And I especially don’t want to be an emotional buzzard–flying around looking for the disasters in the lives of others so I can chew the fat with the old birds about their demise.
I don’t like buzzards–but they are part of creation.
So may I say, “Carion, my wayward son.”