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One of the strangest things about moving to the ridge wasn’t the flora (though we’ve got enough poison ivy to start a cottage industry), but the fauna. And by fauna, I don’t just mean the cute bunnies hopping across the yard—I mean the aftermath of fauna.
See, every trip down the hillside to town came with its own grisly roadside bingo card: groundhog, deer, fox, skunk. Not an occasional mishap, either. I mean every single trip. Sometimes multiple times in the same drive. It was like Mother Nature and Goodyear were locked in a cage match.
At first, I thought the local animal control folks were superheroes. “Wow,” I said to myself, “they must be hiding in the bushes with a walkie-talkie, ready to swoop in the second a squirrel zigged when it should’ve zagged.” Then I got suspicious. Maybe the locals were… collecting? (Don’t think about that too long. I did. Ewww.)
The truth revealed itself one afternoon on my way back from Target. The road was blocked—not by traffic, but by a group of large, winged… things. At first, I thought they were hawks. Majestic, noble hawks. Nope. Buzzards. Plain old carrion-eating, nightmare-feathered buzzards. (Technically, buzzards are hawks, and it’s vultures that are the genuine scavengers, but I live in the South, y’all.)
And let me tell you: these things don’t waste time. Within twenty minutes of a woodland creature’s unfortunate demise, they’ve deployed their secret signal system and swooped in for cleanup. I watched, horrified, as they stripped a carcass faster than I can strip the sheets on laundry day. Two minutes later—poof—they lifted off in unison, disappearing into the woods like the world’s ugliest SWAT team.
Which means… they’re not just out there. They’re right here. Living in the trees beside my road. Watching. Waiting. Plotting.
Now when I drive into town, I don’t wonder if I’ll see them. I wonder how many are already circling overhead, waiting for me to miss a curve. Because out here, the circle of life isn’t Disney. It’s a clean-up crew with wings and zero shame.