Buzzards

Just outside, a bald eagle
beautiful, makes a kill, a
large fish, too large to fly with.
This predator appears to me
as regal and beautiful, even
fearless… and yet the buzzards
who will feast on the remains
ensure I don’t have to clean
up the mess the eagle makes.
Does not the eagle then serve
the buzzards?  Do they in turn
serve me, cleaning every scrap?
Irrationally, I see them as ugly
thieves and purveyors of doom.
Conditioned as I have been
to love one and not the other.