A vulture flies over a forgotten outpost. A mar lost in the middle of a vast quarry; Quarryland, a hunter’s last stop for supplies.

Sweet putrifying odors cause the raptor to start circling clockwise, tighter and tighter. His pattern is a signal to all others in the skies that a meal awaits. The forming committee communicates with each other as the source is meticulously followed on draft after draft, triangulated and mapped.

The sique molecules toss from one breeze to another in the winter’s chill. Still, they can’t help themselves. Like a cyclone, their black gliding forms catch a man’s attention on the frozen ground below.

_

A chimney sweep by winter, and a Game Advocate during the hunting seasons, Weaver teeters on rickety snow stilts. Knocking icicles and snow from his customer’s eaves, he hears a piercing scream and tips over.

Laying on his back unhurt, in two feet of soft snow, Weaver discovers the source. A starving red-tailed hawk tries to join a legion of vultures. Something’s not right.