“Dada, look - pretty,” she says,
pointing at the vulture winging it’s way
through the clear blue skies of early spring.
And I stand, staring,
in the school dropoff parking lot,
at the beauty my daughter casually witnesses
on the way out of her car seat.
She calls the vulture pretty,
because some way, so far,
she has avoided learning the looming lesson:
We sinners judge more by faces
Than by wingspans;
By the simple and stunning ability to soar.
