Midway in November, one
soul moved in synchrony

With three vultures’ lacy wings.
Al looked in his lofty windows,

One last time as they soared
in a circle of power and grace.

He who followed their moves
through black binoculars

Breathed soft, then nevermore.
Al loved their elevated flight.

He was entranced by ascension.
He asked us if we were climbing

To the mountain top. We nodded.
A man at one hundred is at one

With earth’s cycles. Al was at one
with steely seas and grey skies.

We can imagine adoring the
twinkle in Al’s blue eyes

More or less wrinkling them,
winking at everyone he saw.

The elm leaves fell, covering
the earth with golden rapture.

Al’s keen senses crossed
there — trembling, his passage

Intertwined with mirth and loss.
Do you honor generosity, see

The wind release the red leaves.
Pause and you will also feel

Al’s pulse through your being,
amazed with such wonder.

We know the dynamic pitch of Mozart
and the sacred sound of intensity.

We fathom Al’s fervent aspect and
know it is pivotal to what we grasp.

Al said “I have come this far.”
and circled around boundaries

Of the earth with adventure and
appreciation. His spirit cycles still.

Vultures are venerable creatures.
Understanding hallowed purpose,

Al took what was good from what no
longer lived and consecrated it

With an epicurean delight, sailing seas
in war and peace, navigating canals

Blessing bays, he swam rivers, plunged
into the Arctic, sunrise reflected every

Sparkling wave, under the numinous drab
of November Al soared — stunning, holy —

In the air. The sky was dark all day — prediction
of a flood, the Chesapeake flat and silent.

That night, a candle fell on his marble table,
his soul enshrined in the temple of our love.