Black Watch

by Gwen Monohan

Buzzards roosted high
in our aging oaks last winter,
dappling the tall, bare,
branches near the road
which overlooks farm land
and beyond, a lake.

Where air currents
rising over water
kept them kite-sailing
with ease in daytime sun.
watching for dead remains
on land or partly floating.

Late afternoons they curled
back home alone.
Dark tatters, drifting
down to higher limbs.
Perching, like huge blackjacks,
plaid-draped against blue sky.