A Group of Vultures At Rest Is Called A Committee

The water tower dry, the name erased. The city: bisected, then again, then again. Pulsing lights. Chimney smoke. Rippling flags. There is order in death: a hall of power atop a mountain of stairs. Warping sirens. Garden beds. Sun-smeared glass. Decay has no allowance for chaos. Carbon: halved, then again, then again. All is putrefaction to a keen sense of smell. The tower darkens at dusk. Wings settle. The committee comes to order.  

— MATTHEW J. ANDREWS

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