End of the season

The turkey vulture was tired. He had discovered a bald spot under his left wing earlier and wasn’t really feeling that well. Seeing signs of aging was always depressing. He was used to the constant pain in his knees and his claws but losing feathers – that was a different story. He looked out over the swamp. The reeds danced gently in the wind, bowed to one side, then to the other, skinny black figures against the orange-gray light of the setting sun. Stupid reeds. He had not seen a single turkey all day. It was late in the season, but not too late, and the little suckers should be out there catching the last rays of sun before winter drove them back into their holes. He took a deep breath and stretched his wings. Maybe that climate change thing was affecting them too. He had heard other birds talk about it, especially the migrating folks seemed to be pretty concerned, but they always talked a lot. They loved hanging out together, showing around pictures of their grandkids at barbecue parties and yard sales, and you could be sure that wherever they settled for a couple of days there would be a bingo event. The wind picked up a little and fluffed up his feathers. He wished he had a cigarette. On nights like this, when you have no reason to stay out and no reason to go home either, except for the fact that you were expected to go home, he had always enjoyed a good smoke. Kinda kept him clean. Kept him from thinking. Thinking had never led anywhere as far as he was concerned. Maybe that was why he didn’t get along well with women. Women always wanted to know what you think and why and how you feel and they were always so upset when you didn’t answer. But what could he say? He wasn’t holding back anything. He just wasn’t thinking all the time, that was it. He had tried to have something in store in case the question popped up, something emotional and sensitive, but it just didn’t sound right and he had given up on it. He looked at the fine line of sunlight that still hung over the horizon. It sure was getting chilly early this year. He liked being with Nancy, she was warm and kind, but sometimes he thought the whole concept of „having a relationship“ was something women had simply made up. A strange invention. He was sure that - if nobody had ever mentioned the necessity of having a relationship - he would be out here, right here, watching the clouds and smoking and wouldn’t miss a thing. Well. He shrugged. That was just how life went. He looked at his watch. 8 p.m. Time to go home. As he spread his wings and took off towards the darkening sky, he saw a group of small turkeys scramble into the reeds. Ah, fuck it. He turned his head, circled a couple of times over the swamp and then headed home south.