We get a lot of buzzard visits near our farm. Roadkill triggers a visit. An occasional neighboring cow death brings a veritable convention of buzzards. Then they hang around for days. Perched threateningly in our trees. Very Hitchcockian. My brother, Roland, a biologist, tells me that they are not interested in us or our pets as we are too, well, alive. Still it is a little disconcerting.
It is such a regular occurrence that, when trying to find a name for our farm, our son Travis offered Putrid Buzzard Hill. Yes, we do live on a hill. Yes, we get the odd visit from buzzards. But we still chose a different name. We have aspirations of starting a B&B and we thought the Putrid name would be slightly off-putting. Perhaps.
On Tuesday we had to run the buzzard gauntlet to go out to vote. Something very dead in the road. I would make a comment about buzzards and politics, but I prefer to be apolitical on this blog. You, however, are free to make up your own headline.
