It was one of those golden mornings when you take a few moments to look out of your kitchen window and watch vultures mate in the pasture behind your house. This is how the ritual goes:

There she sits in the tall grass of the pasture bathed in sunlight; an onyx-winged Venus tempting all who lay eyes upon her. And there are many.

Her admirers stare at her from the branches of the trees that surround one side of the pasture. There is a dozen or more of them. They love her from afar, this black winged angel – this goddess of the carrion eaters. Yet they fear her, too. She is an older, experienced female and nothing to be trifled with.

Yet, she is beautiful. As enticing as a six day old roadkill possum.

Perhaps and hour passes since she landed in the pasture, yet nothing stirs. She stands statue-like. Alone.

Finally, a lone suitor glides down from the trees. They are roughly the same size he and her. He lands as few yards behind her. He acts as though he doesn’t notice her – as though it is by coincidence alone that the two of them now share the same pasture.

More time passes. Minutes and minutes. She does not move, the goddess. She does not appear to see him nor even know of his existence. She continues to stare off in the direction of the pond as if idly studying the still waters.

He, too stands motionless for a while, but then he moves. He takes a few short hops her way, his wings fixed to his sides; his body upright. He closes the distance between them all the while acting as if she was not the object of his desires. As if she was not even there.

Hop. Hop. He moves closer.

Hop. Hop. Hop.

He is a mere few feet away from her.

Hop. Hop.

He is next to her. She does not turn to look at him.

Ducks are splashing around the pond. A mallard hen sounds off. Wild geese are honking loudly at one another, arguing as usual. Small goats are bounding along in the distance. If either vulture notices, they give no indication. It seems the world has shrunk somehow and it now only holds the two of them. Heartbeats pass. He can take it no more. Passion overwhelms him. It drives him to action.

He launches forward, his wings thrown back behind him in reckless abandon. She tips forward and he is atop her. His wings beat the air in wild frantic strokes. It is now a balancing act full of motion and fury as he struggles to keep his purchase.

She twists her serpentine neck to look back at him. There eyes meet for the first time. They become transfixed on one another.

She makes a loud noise. It is a throaty sound. “Gronk!” She repeats it over and over again. “Gronk! Gronk! Gronk!”

And then they are done. He falls backwards and rolls clumsily to his feet. He hops away from her and with a few beats of his wings, he takes to the sky. He makes one great circle around the pasture, then returns to the trees.

She rights herself. A statue again.

Time passes.

A lone male, a different one, glides out of the trees and lands in the grass a few yards behind her.

Oh, you think, so she is that kind of vulture.