At first, it was just a matter of shadows passing over this place, blocking the sunlight briefly and then releasing it again. It went on for a few days and I thought…oh, it’s just crows or seagulls flying around looking for something to eat.

But the crows normally sit in a tree not far from my door waiting, while the gulls roam the skies toward the east, biding their time until the first crust of bread flies out my door. This was different and not at all characteristic of this place that ravens and wild turkeys call home.

Then it happened one day when I was ready for it, and there, on a branch just a few feet away, sat a pair of turkey vultures. The mystery solved, I stood at the door, an audience of one, as they took to the sky again, soaring low above the trees, their broad dark finger-tipped wings coming once more between me and the sun.

The pair was joined in flight by a third bird, and together, they rode the air currents, high and low, presumably in search of something only they could see.

At one point, the original pair set down on a branch again, and one opened its great wings either as part of a mating ritual or more likely to welcome some of the sun’s warmth against its body after a cold late winter night.

Their incongruous presence reinforced the resilience and adaptability of many wild creatures that have had no choice, for one reason or another, but to learn to share their spaces with such unlikely tenants as humans and domesticated animals.

The turkey vulture, also called turkey buzzard (Cathartes aura), sustains itself primarily on carrion, or the remains of dead animals. I saw a small flock, or kettle, of them in a field once, working on something another animal had left behind either because it had taken all it needed or the vultures chased it away.

More often than not, though, I see them circling high above the earth, dipping and banking and flapping their wings only occasionally as they scan the topography for something interesting. Their size alone makes them easy to spot, as it readily sets them apart from other large birds.

Here in the north, turkey vultures start appearing in the early spring, having migrated farther south for the winter. While most birds have a poor sense of smell, the turkey vulture’s is highly developed, enabling it to locate its food more easily. And if it can’t find anything that another animal left behind or that hasn’t been picked up off the roadways, it is known to eat insects, decaying vegetation, and fish.

The turkey vulture is not a pretty bird by any means. But it does play a valuable role in the environment by disposing of certain things we might not be too fond of dealing with ourselves. And as unattractive as it is when viewed at close range, its dramatic soaring and cruising on the upper air currents is always fascinating to watch.

It imparts the sense that something is always up there, watching, waiting, with a brand of patience that often eludes us mere mortals.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve seen this played out over and over again in the natural world, where most creatures fall into one of two categories: the patient ones, soaring endlessly until they find what they’re looking for; and the perseverant, spending their days flitting constantly about in search of their own brand of sustenance.

In either case, each imparts a lesson that goes beyond its readily apparent attributes.

That’s nature, ever teaching and imparting without ever uttering a single word.