Oh, good vulture and other kindred vessels; masters of transformation and alchemists of loss. To all the ones who circle overhead, I give you my sorrow that this life has passed so quickly to here and now, my grief for what I did not know when I was young, and my anger at the loss of my hope along the way. Take from me all the things I do not need to pass into the place where the old bird women live. The ones who know the sacredness of wind and the murmuration of the starlings. Let me move as they move, like clouds reforming over and over, with no sorrow about what they were before. Help me to not grieve for the days that have gone missing, even as you pluck them away one by one as the moon still turns. Make me a keeper of what is still broken, so that I can mend wings and hearts as your magic transforms what is lost into what sustains. I give you my trust under the darkest sky and thank you for the grace you give us when you fly.
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