They’re back — the harbingers of death. I step outside into the twilight and hear the soft rustle of wings. Shadows ride the thermals above me. One descends and lands on the top of a pine tree. Another follows. Soon, our backyard is peppered with dark wings.

It’s unnerving. With their keen eyesight, my husband and I sometimes joke that the birds are watching us in our advancing years, simply waiting for their opportunity. I’m a bird lover, but buzzards have never ranked high on my affection list.

My uneasy relationship with vultures began long before they selected our backyard as their evening hangout. While visiting great blue heron hatchlings at nearby Devil’s Lake State Park, I noticed a dozen turkey vultures perched in surrounding trees. The heron youngsters, so homely they were almost endearing, were testing their wings. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the opportunistic onlookers were hoping one rambunctious sibling might tumble from the nest.

Just a few miles away at Camp Wawbeek, I once watched a vulture slip from a shadowed cave. It startled me, but then I grew curious. Did it have eggs? Was it an attentive parent? I began to realize their lives were more than simply grim scavenging missions.

Watching the birds gather now in the tall pines along our property line, I’m reminded of their famously unpleasant defenses—projectile vomiting of stomach acid and the curious habit of cooling themselves by urinating on their own legs. Nature, clearly, did not send vultures to charm school.

As more birds glide in, the treetops darken, and I can’t help thinking of Hitchcock’s The Birds. A group of roosting vultures is called a “committee,” and ours has grown into an impressive one. I sometimes imagine word spreading through the vulture world that our quiet corner of Columbia County offers everything they might desire.

They are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, so homeowners have found creative ways to discourage roosting. Some hang effigies or even fake dead vulture carcasses (available online for under $100). I can’t help wondering what the neighbors — or passing schoolchildren — would make of such a grisly sight.

Watching the treetops darken with birds, I recall a fascinating fact. Vultures have alerted utility crews to gas leaks because natural gas is laced with a chemical that mimics the odor of decay. It’s yet another reminder not to dismiss these unglamorous birds too quickly.

Standing beneath their roost, I feel my resistance begin to ease. When one of their feathers drifts down to me, it feels like a hostess gift. I want to return the thank you. I haven’t given vultures enough credit. Nature does not believe in unemployment, and someone, after all, must take out the trash. Without scavengers like these, our roadsides and fields would be far less pleasant places.

Their bald heads, once off-putting, now strike me as practical—nothing sticks to them. I’ve also come to admire their loyalty. This committee has returned to our backyard pines for the past 5 years. I’m not thrilled about the whitewash on the shed, but I know I’d miss them if they chose another address.

As the sun slips below the horizon, I watch them settle in, wings folding like black umbrellas. At dawn, I join them again. They stretch those same impressive wings toward the early light. Once dry, they lift into the brightening sky.

And as they rise on invisible currents, intent on the day’s work ahead, I find myself wishing them well.

(This column is adapted from a piece originally published March 29, 2025.)