I sit on my patio, in a white plastic lounge chair craning my neck over its top edge, listening to the crunching of my spinal cartilage and staring into the sky.
I count: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven buzzards.
Seven New World buzzards soar several hundred feet above my head.
Performing an aerial ballet.
Gliding and floating through patches of blue and white.
I spot accompanying these turkey vultures (Floridian buzzards), but much closer to my being, my vitreous floaters darting across my field of vision. They careen off of the vultures as if they were sub-atomic particles.
I count: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven floaters swimming in my vitreous fluids.
Yes, these are the annoying black and gray shadows caused by the aging of my eyes.
“Yes, I see these as two ominous election signposts.”
“But isn’t the number 7 a lucky number.”
“Wow! They’re counting votes and I am counting buzzards and floaters.”
They’re counting votes and I wondering, “Which of the two Promethean presidential candidates deserves to be chained to a rock and punished by having his liver eaten on a daily basis by these large, ugly, angry birds?”
They’re counting votes and I’m closing my eyes and thinking “Does either candidate have a vulture’s keen sense of smell?
With the ability to sniff out victory.”
I doubt it.
But while they’re counting votes, I sit in my lounge chair absorbing my daily dosage of Covid-fighting vitamin D and wondering which 2020 candidate will end up in the trash heap of history where he will be eaten by buzzards.
But they’re counting votes and it’s taking forever.
Please Lord, grant us rachmones/mercy and speed up the counting of votes.
Help us end this nightmare.