So, remember how I waxed lyrical about the beauty and majesty of eagles soaring overhead? Well, it seems I was mistaken. There are actually eagles along the coast, but here at our place it turns out that those majestic soarers are, um… turkey vultures.
“The turkey vultures soaring majestically overhead” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Granted, they’re almost as big as an eagle, with a nearly-six-foot wingspan. But my binoculars reveal the truth: Turkey vultures are constructed like some particularly tasteless cosmic joke. From the shoulders down they’re beautiful, with powerful wings frosted white on the undersides… but nature grafted on the ugliest excuse for a head and neck I’ve ever seen.
It’s not too noticeable when they’re soaring, which is probably why they do it so often. But when they’re perched in a tree, it looks as though somebody did a really bad Photoshop merge between an eagle and an inflamed penis.
There’s the eagle’s body and beak, but in between there’s this scrawny angry-red fleshy thing. Whenever I peer at a turkey vulture through binoculars, I worry that I’m going to get arrested for voyeurism.
I’m pretty sure the turkey vulture is a victim of evolution’s practical joke; but I can’t help thinking that the cosmic comedians have been taking a dig at me, too.
First of all there’s the unsettling realization that eight large carrion-eaters have been circling our property for weeks, apparently waiting for me to keel over in the garden and achieve the optimum degree of putrefaction to become their dinner.
But the main thing that bothers me is that all this time I’ve been admiring what I thought was a noble scion of the sky, and it turns out I’ve only been ogling a dickhead.
There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere…
Book 14 update: I’m on Chapter 18 and rollin’! Things are getting complicated for Aydan…