The Fires of the Bashful

Ron Koppelberger

The Fires of the Bashful

Further from the derelict nest, the swamp trill of crickets, frogs and whip-o-wills, was an appareled vulture done in ash and curved talon. He had eaten and the stink of carrion was on his shiny black beak. In two parts the world had grown a bit smaller and more interesting to the vulture.
She was delicate and in alabaster feathered allure, a curved symmetry of white fluttering glory. What chance did he have, he was ugly, rapacious and hungry beyond belief; she was a beautiful dove and he a vulture. She watched him eat from her perch. A viscous meal of rotting meat and visceral abandon. She said, “Do you enjoy your meals?” in shy coquette. He turned upward, a bit of flesh hanging from his beak.
“It’s the way of my kind sweet dove.” he offered.
“I eat seeds and insects.” she said offering the suggestion.
“Come try my fare sweet dove!” he said with a sweep of his wings. She flew to him and nibbled at the carcass bashfully. Soundlessly he considered the dove. She was rapture and the shy side of his hopeful abandon. He gently covered her with an outstretched wing. They slept, sated and at peace. When he awoke she had gone. He lamented the loss and pondered in careful wisdom. “A doves breadth is not in the fray of a sober carrion dream and a vulture……..simply is!”