Circles
A lone vulture circles a scarred field.
His suffocating loops shrink like a lasso.
Practiced and efficient, these circles narrow around the unknowing victims.
Waiting for his quarry to fall, he delays and lets the cold wind flow through his curved, pincer beak.
Barely noticeable, the ruffle in his wings breaks the dead silence.
Cold, deep eyes, lifeless and ghostly pits, absorb the heat as he focuses on two separate lone bodies.
Too late to save themselves, two fatally wounded soldiers, once enemies, bond in death and wait.

mine (: