Poem: "The Death Tenders"

This poem was inspired by prompts from the_vulture and morrigans_eve.  It has been sponsored by the_vulture.

They are the ones nobody wants to remember,
the scavengers who come after the killing is done
to take care of what remains
so that life may go on.

Here is Turkey Vulture in his black coat and red cap,
feathers patiently combing the wind like long fingers
as he soars high above the turning Earth.
It is his duty to watch all that passes below,
although his is not a hunter's sight --
it is stillness, not motion,
which attracts his attention.

Here is Raven clad in a dark rainbow of plumage,
the clever one come to pick her way through the leavings
and take away what is bright, what is rich.
It is her duty to puzzle out how to reach things
that no one else can reach, laugh through the riddles,
and point out the path for others.

Here is Rat in his plain grey velveteen,
his paws like tiny hands feeling out his course,
silver whiskers twitching in the sensitive wind.
It is his duty to slip through the holes
where others cannot fit, pour himself like shadow
into the rocks and crevices, into body cavities ...
even to carry death on his back to where it may be needed
when overcrowding demands release.

Here is Earthworm in her simple slicker,
pink as an unborn thing, eternally
swallowing the soil that swallows her.
It is her duty to clean up the smallest leavings
and cast them off as fertile new earth
fit to push up the daisies,
root-gardener working her cthonic magic
all unseen by those who dwell above.

They are the death tenders,
gnawing the spirit free from its cage of bone
that it may be reborn,
recycling the materials to be used again,
clearing away the refuse so it does not choke the land.

They are servants of the pregnant void,
doing the dark hidden work
from which life turns its face,
serving Entropy as their God
because they know how crucial a force it is
and because they understand how bitter it can be

to be hated, and yet still holy.