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For the two griffon vultures, just the opposite. They are not distressed and they have no obvious intention of leaving. They should. Atop an acacia tree they would be out of harm’s way. Whatever keeps them on the ground and makes them stay, hunger isn’t it. Something else. Something compelling. One of the vultures stands on a small bare hummock that mounds up out of the closecropped grass. The other is just beside. He bends down, and takes something from the base of the mound with the tip of his beak. The vulture on her slight perch does the same: Bend. Pick. Up again.
Vultures in Love White-backed Vulture Photos and editorial © Mark Seth Lender Out on the open plane a hyena tugs at the remains of a wildebeest. A short distance away there are two griffon vultures, also on the ground. They take no interest in the hyena or in the carrion she is now dragging off with her. A gauge of the hyena’s desperation. She is in effortful possession of something even a vulture will not eat. In ten minutes it will be nearly dark. That’s how night comes on at the equator. Like a slammed door. The hyena keeps looking around, short sharp movements. Exposed like this her nervousness is justified. In the dark she may have some relief, from her fear, but not the hunger.
Now him…
masticated stuff deep inside the many-layered coats of each other’s feathers. And stop. And look into each other’s jet black eyes.
Now her… Now both of them. Then: Stropping brushing stroking each other with their beaks rapid, intent. Along the check. Down, between the shoulders. Burying their faces in the collar that forms a ruff about each other’s throat, rubbing something in – - there it is. The thing that each has retrieved from the mound.
Their mouths open, barely, as if speaking, as if his voice only for her, hers meant only for him. And start again: Combing roaming clutching. Necks entwined. Beaks touching. And touching. And touching…. The light fails. They never will.
There. Inside her open mouth. The creamy white body of termite, bounced against the hard palate, the black tongue lifting pressing crushing - he has one too and now does the same – and using their beaks like burnishing tools they spread the
Vultures, in Love.
