They've come for the Vulture House. Annihilation atop the hill...where once stood its abandoned neighbor, now bulldozed land...no tree, nor shrub spared by the greed of man. I just stared at the deep tread marks scarring the earth, and bled inward. White with forest green trim, a two-story, architectural beauty...reduced to a spacial memory...to thoughts blueprinted within a journal...a feather pressed between the covers. Paneless windows, where weather worn curtains billowed in the breeze...wrapping spectral bodies in watchful habits...gave light to the vines that spired the walls...flowered the rise of the sun...and storied the vacant years. They'll callously dismantle the Vulture House...no care or thought to history...no admiration for Nature's reclamation. I think of the vulture...his perch within a broken double hung window, atop a battered rail...his body wider than the opening...a foreboding silhouette...intimidating, with his head always held high...surveying...acknowledging...finding eyes. Where will he go? Upon which land shall his shadow cast? And the phantoms of the corners and under the stairs...the hallways and the porches...upon what floors or tall grasses will their tales haunt? Will moonlight still play upon their figures...casting them in sight...giving shade to their dance? And the ruins of birth and death...the scavenged bones building catacombs...and the honor of survival in spite of man's wants...who will fashion the memorial to such a wonder? To such a glorious fight?...
Here Lied the Vulture House: Built Upon Man's Fate
E.A. O'Connell
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