As I’ve written about fairly recently, I admire the flying ability of turkey vultures (a.k.a. buzzards).
But these members of God’s clean-up crew with lousy reputations (arguably deservedly so) are often fascinating beyond the realm of flight. I recently witnessed something to place in that category.
On an absolutely beautiful Fall afternoon, as I was sitting on the back deck of our home west of Houston high above the Big Piney River, our 7-year-old self-appointed watchdog Scotty (the Scottie) suddenly began barking his head off. When the Scot-man does that, there’s typically a pretty good reason, so I most certainly wanted to know what the commotion was about.
As I lifted my head to have a look, it didn’t take long to notice Scotty’s emphatic vocalizing was due to a massive cloud of vultures cruising around all over the general vicinity. And I mean massive; I’d estimate there were well over 100 of the big black birds. It was wild.
They were all over the place; some of them were circling at various levels above the forest canopy, while others were diving into the river valley or soaring their way out of it. Still others were perched in the tops of trees, as if enjoying a front-row seat to all of the action.
I’m not sure what the reason for the big fowl-fest was, but it was quite a sight to behold – one of those that you can’t keep your eyes off of and spurs your brain to wonder.
Now, Scotty doesn’t hesitate to scorn unannounced visitors, and he’s been known to bark an unwelcome critter or two all the way into Shannon County. It was obvious he had a mind to do that to this frisky hoard of big birds, and he kept objecting loudly for several minutes before realizing we weren’t in any danger and the buzzards weren’t going to call off their airborne gala because of a singular canine opposition.
Again, it’s not unusual to see groups of buzzards enjoying themselves flying in and above the river valley in and around Tweed’s Bottoms. But this was different. This was a gathering of rare magnitude attended by a whole bunch of willingly interested participants.
It’s like it was planned. But it wasn’t the “second annual such-and-such” or anything like that, because we’ve lived in the neighborhood for many years now and nothing like it has happened before.
When I’m in the presence of something like this, I inevitably ponder weird stuff in my head.
Really? A giant flock of buzzards flying around and perching in a place where they’re not known to do it on a regular basis?
Who was invited, and what were the qualifications?
Who sent the invitations and how were they sent?
What in the Sam Hill was the purpose, if not for sheer entertainment and enjoyment?
Will this now be an annual event?
If so, would they mind some media coverage?
There’s a strong chance that we may never know the answers to any of those questions.
Eventually, the immense and impressive avian assembly began to dissipate, with one of its apparent leaders maintaining a slow, deliberate circling reconnaissance, while a few others soared around as if keeping watch for, well, I have no idea what.
Almost as soon as the whole thing began, it ended, and Scotty and I couldn’t see a single buzzard.
But the memory of the spectacle is etched in my mind, and I now know that buzzards might, at any given moment, take part in a dazzling collective extravaganza.
One other thing occurred to me as this stunning exhibition unfolded before me and Scotty: God’s creation is incredibly creative.
Doug Davison is a writer, photographer and newsroom assistant for the Houston Herald. Email: ddavison@houstonherald.com.
