A contrasting experience of vultures divides us

It is for me the breath of almost-touch
peculiar to feathers; you describe burning and blood.

They are stooping grey greatness, magnificent,
and yellow desert is a given; desert with an edge
of captivity. I have a panic-lack
of photograph, though there was a camera poised.
My memory does not contend with experience
and the darkness of beating wings around your head.

It is for me the breath of almost-touch peculiar
to feathers; you describe the talons in your back.