Or 6 Explore the ways in which Clarke powerfully depicts the nature of the bird in Buzzard. Buzzard No sutures in the steep brow of this cranium, as in mine or yours. Delicate ellipse as smooth as her own egg or the cleft flesh of a fruit. From the plundered bones on the hill, like a fire in its morning ashes, you guess it's a buzzard's skull. You carry it gently home, hoping no Last Day of the birds will demand assembly of her numerous white parts. In the spaces we can't see on the other side of walls as fine as paper, brain and eye dry out under the gossamers. Between the sky and the mouse that moves at the barley field's spinning perimeter, only a mile of air and the ganging crows, their cries stones at her head. In death, the last stoop, all's risked. She scorns the scavengers who feed on death, and never feel the lightning flash of heart dropping on heart, warm fur, blood.