Johnny Payne is the arts editor at Merion West. Johnny is a poet, novelist, playwright, and essayist. He has worked extensively in Latin American Studies, especially literature under dictatorship and Quechua oral tradition. He directs the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Mount Saint Mary’s University, Los Angeles. He earned his doctorate from Stanford University. Contact Johnny at johnny@merionwest.com.
03/01/2024
(Juana Moriel-Payne)
“Here on a narrow one-lane/overgrown with cattails and ivy/the circle of turkey buzzards draws closer.”
On Shanty Hill Road, I bike
following fresh asphalt’s soft
undulations, past river birch
and hemlock, as baby rabbits
zip and hop, lop-eared
and crazed with the first onrush
of clover scent, bees bouncing right
off their haunches. One
jumps straight in front of me
and only a swift jerk that almost
dismounts my hurtling
haunches, saves its neck.
Fur disappears into sumac
and unmown grass. It’s dazed
by a brush with sudden
end. In the field beyond, a lone
horse stands brownly oblivious
to this rabbit, whose cousins abound.
Meanwhile, for miles around, foals
are getting born, sloughing off goop
taking first rickety steps,
improbably upright, some
destined for racetracks but
for now, testing the sod with pliant
hooves, or suckling milk from the dam.
I power up a long hill, downshifting.
Over the rise, ten yards off, a wake
of vultures crowds the remains
of a less lucky rabbit, two or three beaks probing
as bystanders primly await their turn
at flesh. These aren’t barbarians.
The red smear on tar of the reckless
car that smacked this lepus cuniculus
made roadkill before the newborn
could taste the green delights of existence.
Buzzards have overflown many of my trips.
Riding thermals, scant wing flaps, sudden drops,
keen eyes, cruising low enough to scent
the first gases of the freshly rotting corpse.
Utter quiet, no syrinx to disturb
just grunts or low hisses. Sometimes
in trees, they feed upchuck to their chicks.
Black vultures kill cattle, while
these peaceful turkey buzzards show up late
to feast on carrion and take the blame
for their cousins’ murderous ways.
Here on a narrow one-lane
overgrown with cattails and ivy
the circle of turkey buzzards draws closer.
Each seems to say a silent prayer
dipping its bald red head
before ripping off a strip of flesh.
Johnny Payne is the arts editor at Merion West. He is a poet, novelist, playwright, and essayist. He has worked extensively in Latin American Studies, especially literature under dictatorship and Quechua oral tradition. He directs the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Mount Saint Mary’s University, Los Angeles and earned his doctorate from Stanford University.
