.
On wings that span nigh on six feet
In search of spiral flumes of air
Wasting not a single beat
Their eyes are fixed in constant stare

A swoop to scan what doesn't move
With vision keen as polished steel
A tuft of fur in road or field
The hope of yet an easy meal

All creatures here must always pass
To die and foul and soon decay
And fill the bellies of the beasts
That live on only lifeless prey

Frowned upon by those of us
Who live and still can draw a breath
They're viewed as only harbingers
Of nothing more than certain death

And thus begans another day
In hopes of finally being fed
Another carcass left in care
To those lofty keepers of the dead

                                           W. E. Wheat
.
Keepers of the Dead
Keepers of the Dead
On wings that span nigh on six feet
In search of spiral flumes of air
Wasting not a single beat
Their eyes are fixed in constant stare

A swoop to scan what doesn't move
With vision keen as polished steel
A tuft of fur in road or field
The hope of yet an easy meal

All creatures here must always pass
To die and foul and soon decay
And fill the bellies of the beasts
That live on only lifeless prey

Frowned upon by those of us
Who live and still can draw a breath
They're viewed as only harbingers
Of nothing more than certain death

And thus begans another day
In hopes of finally being fed
Another carcass left in care
To those lofty keepers of the dead

                                           W. E. Wheat
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Photo copyright W. E. Wheat