---

A committee of vultures

Gathered in a place of half-frozen winter grass and crooked black trees

Dropping acid in a cemetery

Dancing on the dead

Skeleton bones beneath the road

Seen in moon-green x-rays

Rage Against the Machine

Seeping up from the hallowed hollows

One named Ray

Has a distant head

Breaks off from the others

Stares up into space

One named Hal leaps from tombstone to tombstone

Sometimes losing his balance

One named Ashley tries to have sex

With a small statue of an ancient man from Rome

An orange and yellow spark arcs across the sky

Floats, fizzles, finishes over Finland

The committee squawks a conundrum of wishes

But a sudden car crash startles them

Someone has hit a deer out on the road

They hear a human screaming mad

But they only care about breakfast.

---

“Did you realize that the Geico gecko eats an English muffin in one of his commercials,” says the one named Todd.

“Why wouldn’t he? He’s English,” answered the grouchy one named Crow. He was the blackest of black vultures and then named a name of another bird.

“You’re both idiotic bitch chickens,” said the one named Caesar, the narcissist. “He speaks Western Lombard.”

“I don’t care what he speaks,” the one named Todd said. “I like him, and I like that he eats an English muffin.”

“You’ve never even had an English muffin,” snapped the one named Crow.

“How do you know,” the one named Todd answered. “Maybe I sneak away and have one. You don’t know everything about me.”

“Why are you getting all your feathers in a ruffle?” the one named Crow said. “We all know what you did in the newsroom back in your other life.”

“That was a different time. I was a different vulture, and I was going through some serious shit back then,” the one named Todd said. “I had personal problems.”

The committee of vultures all laughed out loud.

---

“It’s a weird sound,” said the grave keeper from a point out of sight. “When they laugh like that.” He liked to talk to himself. He did it all the time.

The grave keeper is named Santa, but he doesn’t resemble Santa Claus much at all.

Santa Vroyick is his full name. He’s an immigrant with Amorikan regrets.

The cacophony of the vultures slowly dissipates as Santa Vroyick walks toward the farmhouse. On the way he stops at the work shed and stows his favorite shovel. He walks up onto the porch of the house and sits down on the swing. His wife is there, and she’s staring out into space.

“Santa?” she finally says.

“Yes?”

“I’ve decided when I die that I want you to put me out in the yard and just let them vultures go at me.”

“You mean you want them to pick you apart piece by piece and eat you.”

“I said it, so I reckon that’s what I mean.”

“But, why on Earth would you want that, Clara?”

She turned to look at him. Her face was gray and grave. “Costs too much to get buried proper. Hell, folks can’t even afford to die in this crooked country because of President Pumpkinhead. And I don’t want you to spend all that money and make some fuss about a ceremony. Just throw me in the yard. If you want, I’ll have papers drawn up so you can’t deny me my wishes.”

Santa Vroyick rubbed at his salt and pepper stubble and looked at her with curious eyes. “Are you sure about this, Clara?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“But what if somebody just happens by and sees you out there? They might think I killed you and call the law.”

“Then don’t put me so damn close to the road!”

They decided to go back into the house and watch some television before bed. They sat beside each other on the living room couch and held old hands. Remnants of a fire crackled softly in the fireplace. Framed photos from their river cruise in Europe were lined up across the mantel.

Clara Vroyick operated the remote and went through the selections on Netflix. “What do you feel like watching?” she asked.

Santa Vroyick sighed happily. “I don’t really care. I just want to be beside you is all.”