George puffed on his pipe, the aroma of strong tobacco slowly filling the chilly morning air. It was the end of summer but the temperature had started to drop early this year. He sat on his porch watching the sky, as he always did. To anyone looking, the intensity of his gaze might give the impression that he was deeply yearning to be up there amongst the clouds. But of course, there was no one to notice. There had been no one for many years, ever since his wife Petunia passed.

He lived in an old hut in a wooded clearing. There used to be a garden all around the house. Now it was no more than knee high grass in most places, with the only exception being a faint hair of a path that started at the hut and went in the direction of the village. The only sign that someone ever came there.

Unable to stand upright without an effort, George had taken to spending most of his time sitting on his porch. Sun or rain, it was a good bet he would be there. Watching the sky, watching the birds.

He liked birds. He enjoyed their freedom as they flew over the vast endless skies. Watching them made him briefly forget how unlike them he was in his old age.

The birds never came too close to the hut, though they would frequently perch on the trees surrounding it. This had always been so, even when Petunia was around. Once, they'd tried putting a bird feeder on a wooden post in front of their porch, but no bird ever came. Now, the feeder was lost among the tall grasses, the feed long eaten by crawling things. The post still remained though, stout and resolute. A little bit like George, both refusing to give way to the passage of time.

George remembered a group of scientists once came to the village saying they wanted to study a most curious flock of vultures. These, they said, would fly in a strict pattern around other villages in the area, stopping there for some days before moving on to the next. "This in itself is not so strange" said the scientist, "what's really strange is that this flock, and only this flock, stays here during winter while all the other vultures migrate south to warmer climates".

George didn't know what happened to the scientists or whether they discovered anything, or maybe their grants had stopped coming in as he saw no more of them after that season. As far as he knew no one else had heard anything of them.

Still, ever since then George remained watchful for vultures, and whenever he saw them flying high above he was reminded of the scientists who seemed so excited by carrion birds. At other, darker moments, he wondered if, were he to die, who would be first to find him: the vultures or the villagers.

Lately he'd come to see them more and more often. Or so it seemed to him at least. They would circle above the clearing for a while only to fly away without ever landing on any of the trees. He wondered if maybe they were marking the places where their next meal might come from.

On that morning, George saw a large flock of vultures flying high above. "A group of vultures in flight is called a Kettle" he seemed to remember one of the scientists saying.

They flew in a spiral above the clearing, some going in one direction and some the other. From where he sat it seemed their wings briefly melded when they passed in front of each other, and separated shortly thereafter, again and again as if in an elaborate hypnotic dance.

Three specks detached from the rest and came gliding silently to land among the tall grasses. Big birds they were, much bigger than he expected them to be when he first saw them high up. One of them hopped forward and with an elegant flap of it's large wings perched on top of the decrepit bird feeder's post.

George stared at the bird who stared back at him with a piercing expression. Almost human, but not quite. There was something familiar about it. The vulture slowly opened its beak.

"George" said the bird, its beak immobile. The sound seeming to come from behind it.

George sat there trying to decide if the bird had actually talked to him. Something started to bubble up from the back of his mind, an image, a memory, and he immediately recognized the voice and knew why the bird looked familiar.

"Bill? Bill the cobbler?" he said as he felt his pulse quicken, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

"Oh George. It's been such a long time my old friend. We've been watching you for many moons. Ever since your wife passed we've been here, waiting."

The vulture looked and sounded like Bill, and yet not quite like him. It felt removed, as if from a great distance, as if from behind a veil. Still, the spark of him was there.

"Waiting for what? How..." his mind still racing to catch up with the moment.

"Waiting for you to be ready my friend. And we now think you are."

"Ready for what?"

"To join us, of course."

At that, other vultures started to land in the tall grass. Some of them also seemed familiar. Was that Old Rita over there? And Bernie the old thatcher?

A spark of hope alighted on his chest, scorching every other thought out of his mind "Wait, is my dear Petunia with you?"

The bird closed its eyes and shook its head "I'm afraid not George, we don't know where she is, but the wind tells us she is not far. Somewhere in these valleys she lies, but your paths diverge now, and if you see each other it will be only as an echo."

George slumped back into his chair. Silence seemed to stretch like a blanket over them, covering everything in the clearing. Even the grasshoppers stood silent, as if watching with interest what was going on. The vultures sat, staring at him with their piercing eyes of liquid night.

"Join us" said Bill the Vulture.

"Join us" repeated the others in chorus.

A cold wind seemed to blow into George's face, as if a door into a dark and long forgotten place had just been opened. An otherworldly chill ran up his spine.

"You have nothing here, and you know it. You, like this house, are just waiting for an end that is already long overdue. Join us."

George knew Bill was right. After his wife passed he'd lost all interest in life, just moving on from one day to the next, smoking his pipe and watching the sun as it traveled through the sky. He slowly brought his hand to his throat, trying to stop the knot that was forming there.

"How?" he said, his voice breaking a little from the truth.

"We will come again in two weeks time. Fashion a hooded cloak for yourself and be ready." croaked bill. George noticed that the more Bill spoke the more he sounded like a bird and less as a human.

"And George, this is the only thing you will be able to take with you" Bill croaked, "make sure it warms you"

With these final words the vultures spread their wings and flew up into the sky. George watched them and was surprised to realize he felt sad at their leaving. He knew at that moment that what he most wanted was to go with them, to move on, to not be alone anymore. As brief at it was, their visit had brought something into his life that he'd been missing for a long time.

"Look for us at sunrise." came a far away croak from Bill.

George stood immobile for some time, letting what had happened sink in. Seeing some of his old friends made him better appreciate all the loneliness he'd felt these past few years. But with him they also left a spark of hope: they will be back soon, and he will no longer be alone.

George went inside and sprinkled some tea leaves in a pot with water and put it to boil. Petunia never liked to have leaves floating around in her tea, but he didn't mind. As he waited, his mind started to think about the cloak. It seemed to him that a fever had come over him, an obsession almost, and he could think of nothing else.

Finally the water boiled, he poured the tea into a cup. As it cooled he went in search of the tools he'd need for what he was planning to do. When living out by yourself one always has thread and needle handy as stitching is an essential skill out here. He never got any good at it though, and now with his atrophied fingers it would be harder than ever.

He stood with needle and thread in his hands for long while, thinking of where to start. The tea cold and all but forgotten when he suddenly got an idea, as if a flash, an image of Petunia's wedding dress.

It didn't take much for him to find it among the few things he kept in a memory box in his closet. He took it downstairs and spread it on the table. Taking a sip of the cold tea he admired how beautiful it still was, and remembered how Petunia looked in it. Taking the old but serviceable pair of scissors from the cupboard he set to work and cut out large strips from the dress's flowing skirt, and a large cutout from the bodice. The scissor squeaking constantly in his hands as he worked.

George's hands would frequently cramp up, forcing him to stop and rest. Rough knuckled fingers, unable to fully open, with only but a shadow of the strength they used to have in their youth.

It was slow going, and the pain would've been grueling in a normal situation, but for some reason he didn't mind right now. It was as if some other will but his own was guiding his actions. He had no idea why he was cutting the shapes he was, but he knew exactly where they were meant to go. The strips on his shoulders, like feathers, the flattened bodice would be part of the chest covering.

He fell asleep at the kitchen table as he worked, and continued working as soon as he got up. In the morning of the second day he suddenly realized he was done with the dress, now the cloak called for something else. He sat trying to think of where else could he source materials from for a long time, but nothing came to him, everything he thought of seemed inappropriate. Then, in the middle of the night of the second day he suddenly woke up with a flash, an image of the bed cover on which him and Petunia had spent so many chilly afternoons sipping hot cocoa and chatting of small things.

The same process repeated itself with more and more items. For every new item that he added he felt the strengthening of the intuitive connection that was guiding him along in the process. After the bed cover was done, the flashes came freely and frequently. He noticed that all of the items where ones that had some emotional connection with his life, all of which brought him warmth.

Then came the stitching part. Again, he had no idea how or why he was doing what he was, but he'd come to trust his hands by then, and just let them do as they will. He spent most of the remaining days stitching. Alternating between carefully joining pieces of fabric and getting flashes of where and how to place them, as if heard from a voice far away, or deep within. No two strips where the same, each having its specific and perfect place and function.

Eventually, by the morning of the day before the vultures said they'd be back he had a beautiful cloak. While looking at it he got the impression that he had grown it in the same way that humans grow hair, or birds grow feathers. He had no idea how, but it had sprung from him. It was, in many ways, a part of him.

The frayed cloth of the strips did indeed make it look like they were feather covering all of his back and shoulders. The cloak laid on the kitchen table and he admired just how truly perfect it was, much more than he expected or that his skill should allow for. He yearned to put it on, and as he did he felt how thick and warm the fabric was, how soft and yet sturdy. He felt strong wearing it. Not younger, but more as if a fire was lit within him and fed into his every limb, out of every pore.

As his fingers stroked the different parts of the cloak he could tell where each piece had come from, filling his mind with memories of good things. He spent all of that day wearing the cloak and admiring it for what it was. By the end of the day, warmth started to thaw his heart. He realized just how cocooned within himself he'd been. Protecting himself from feeling, cutting himself out. But now, he was ready to open, to be connected with life once again.

Come night he slept in his bed for the last time, and dreamt dreams of happiness, but not nostalgia, more as a flower that's ready to bloom, to transform and leave back fond memories of what was before in favor of the miracle of the future. He also dreamt stranger things. Dreams of feathers and beaks, of talons scraping the dirt. Him looking at his own pale face, the beak entering a wet something, tearing at sinew, flying over high above and a flower, a bright rosy petunia standing on a hill not far away. His Petunia.

As soon as sunlight started to color the edge of his windows he got up and donned his cloak over his bare skin. It was strangely warm, and seemed to have changed in the night to a much darker texture, or maybe it was just a trick of the light and the coldness of the air.

He opened the door with the intention of waiting for the vultures, got outside and stared at the sky as he leaned on the porch's railing. It was clear as far as he could see, except for a few clouds set ablaze from below by the morning sun. He fidgeted with the cloak thinking that perhaps he'd imagined the whole thing, that in his old age he'd finally cracked, that the vultures never really came to him. Terror filled his heart at the wavering of that hope which had kindled within it. But then he heard it, a rustle in the grass.

Looking down he saw that what he had initially taken to be normal shadows on the grass where in fact birds, vultures big and small. Scores of them sitting still as statues with their beady eyes watching him, waiting expectantly. George knew, that these were all like he, lost souls the flock had saved.

In front of them all was Bill, who was looking up at the sky. George followed his gaze and saw up above a single lone speck flying in spirals above them all. He knew this was no normal vulture, nor was it a lost soul like him. A shepherd it was, and George was filled with longing to join her.

Without really knowing what he was doing he got on the porch's railing, squatting as a bird might on a tree branch. His eyes ever upward and didn't see as the birds in front of him opened their wide wings, urging him on, as if with their silent and steady beat they could propel him onwards, and upwards.

A final fiery impulse filled George veins, his heart yearning for the soaring wind, and the company of that shepherd up above. He spread his cloak as if wings, as if it were the most natural of motions, and leapt. He soared up, and up, and he saw with amazement that he was not alone. All around him were the vultures from his garden, following him, urging him on, welcoming him as brothers and sisters into the flock, and he knew he would never be alone again.

They flew together, following the shepherd, going nowhere but seeing everything. In circles above his house they flew, and in his new vulture mind he knew it was because there was work to do below.

The shepherd flew down and lied on the grass next to a long gray shape. They all flew down and alighted next to her. All waiting silently, giving space for George to pass through and see what it was that was lying in his garden. He looked around himself at his new brothers and sisters and they no longer seemed simple birds but were now his equals. He knew many of them, and felt the warmth and support as would be given to a long lost brother who finally made his way back home. From his point of view now the beaks and eyes expressive, their plumage beautiful and unique, and he knew from their expressions that he still needed to take one last step to be free, and that they would help but he had to begin it alone.

He made his way to the front, and saw with equal mix of horror and relief that it was himself lying on the ground. An old frail body, bent and broken by the years, lying cold and dead amidst the morning dew of the tall grass covered by a cloak that looked sun bleached as if with many days of exposure.

He raised his eyes to the shepherd and knew what had to be done. Before beginning the sacred labor he raised his head and gave out a mighty squawk, and in a hill not far away a bright petunia heard it and was glad her beloved was alone no more.

Vultures are holy creatures.
Tending the dead.
Bowing low.
Bared head.
Whispers to cold flesh,
“Your old name is not your king.
I rename you ‘Everything.’”

~ The poem “Clergy” originally published in the collection "Love Notes from the Hollow Tree" by Jarod K. Anderson