As it turned out,
the old man walking at a tilt
along the road, with shoulders
hunched high, bare bald head
thrust low between, and knobbed
fingers twined for balance behind
as if he might blow over in a heap
if he stood straight, though there
was no wind to bend him, despite
the sound of leafless limbs in near
trees clacking as they scraped a
bruise upon the patch of sky above,
was a buzzard,
after all, advancing toward the city
that would neither shelter like chicks
beneath a mother’s wings, nor exhale
the breath sucked in when, untied,
the borrowed colt of a donkey
began to bray.
© dana hughes 3.13.15
Furthermore... 
Well, you’ve done it again: taken a perfectly normal buzzard and turned him into a symbol of the hard edges of holiness. I spend half this poem thinking this is about a cadaverous old man walking down a road only to find out it’s an avian premonition of the cross. And all because of chicks and a braying, untied donkey. Dana, I love your ability to turn an image inside out and make it say something no one expected it could say. Thank you for seeing Palm Sunday as a march toward the place of the skull.
thank you, Paul. your comments mean more than you know.