​A Dignity of Vultures

James Scruton​

A kettle in the sky, 
and in trees a volt, 
a venue—or worse,
a mere committee—
it’s their grim, grounded work
we notice most, a wake 
of them in a field
or on the road, their silence
larger than life. Even roused 
by a passing car
they keep their dignity,
each lifted, grudging wing
a shaming of our skin-deep
feel for the world.