Dead things aren’t really left alone. Even as they seem to be rotting in solitude, they’re not. Remains are searched, and pilfered, and shifted by all sorts of living things. The living move about them and in them and through them, ferrying them along, completing their story.
In this home is a living thing – a living thing, which, according to another creature, would be more useful dead. So the life moves out of this living thing, and it is left alone. But only for a while.
Here lies the dead thing, blue-suited living things buzz around it. They search, and pilfer, and shift until one calls the others away. The dead thing is alone, but only for a moment, before a new living thing replaces the blue-suits.
It swoops in, this dark-cloaked scavenger, to pick at cadaver and carrion and question. It struts, and caws, and thrashes while pecking at meat and bone and puzzle. And now, the dead thing is so very much not alone.
The creature’s eyes see past the deadness, to the thing once living. Its mind moves about, within and through this thing, and then, in a sudden gust and caw, the creature flies away – to ferry the dead thing along, to complete its story.
And alone it goes, this living thing, a detective of a buzzard.