On New Year’s Eve, I went walking under the cover of buzzards. Twelve. I counted them when they were still at least half a mile ahead of me, looping through the sky like braces freed from a keyboard and animated by some perverse magic, swirling in an ever-narrowing funnel toward the ground where some rotting carcass awaited their ravenous hunger.
Under cover of buzzards
![](https://statesboroherald.cdn-anvilcms.net/media/images/2020/01/16/images/63e386c1309f69a155267c9a83ec4563.max-1200x675.jpg)
![buzzards](https://statesboroherald.cdn-anvilcms.net/media/images/2020/01/16/images/63e386c1309f69a155267c9a83ec4563.max-752x423.jpg)
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