Maryland wildlife officials are investigating a cluster of dead vultures. As your neighbor with a stethoscope that mostly hears drama, I translate: nature sneezed, the cleanup crew called in sick.

Vultures, the undertakers of the sky, have historically demonstrated extreme job dedication, showing up to roadside potlucks with the enthusiasm of interns promised exposure. Now they suddenly took permanent PTO. Cue the avian-flu rumor mill grinding like a NutriBullet full of feathers.

Avian influenza is a virus with the bedside manner of a raccoon at 3 a.m.: loud, messy, and perpetually surprised to be here. It spreads among birds efficiently, among humans rarely, and among Facebook posts always. Risk exists, panic is optional, and handwashing remains undefeated like a grandmother at bingo.

I like randomized evidence more than I like my own succulents, and those are on a drip. Unfortunately, vultures refuse to enroll in a blinded trial, possibly because the control arm sounds suspiciously like ‘don’t lick the landfill.’ So officials test samples, map carcasses, and try not to name the ravines.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood text thread lit up with the clairvoyant precision of a smoke alarm near toast. Someone suggested staging a candlelight vigil; someone else suggested staging from 200 feet away. A third announced she’d ordered a backyard biosecurity kit and a yard sign that reads ‘We respect boundaries, even in viruses.’

Policy beats platitudes, so here’s the policy: don’t touch dead wildlife; call the people with gloves and a pension. If you cannot resist the urge to rescue, rescue your impulse control. The birds do not need essential oils; the birds need dignity and distance.

To the question ‘Should I wear a mask when walking past a tree that once saw a bird,’ I offer the clinical standard: if your anxiety is louder than the crows, a mask won’t hurt, a walk will help, and no one ever regrets soap.

Local officials, who are legally required to look like they haven’t slept since 2009, are sampling sites and reminding the public that poultry is safe if cooked like you mean it. They did not say to boil the air, power-wash emotions, or marinate neighbors in bleach, even if your HOA would approve.

Equipment-wise, the only people who need grabby tools are the professionals, the raccoons, and that one uncle. If you are not one of those, you do not need an animal control grabber pole; you need patience, shoes, and a phone with the wildlife hotline starred like a crush.

The vultures, for their part, held a brief press conference consisting entirely of dramatic silence and a breeze that smelled like dissertation stress. Spokesbird V. Ture promised to resume service once humans stop tossing charcuterie boards at 70 miles per hour.

If you’re hunting miracle cures, the randomized trial winner is still hydration and a walk, with a side of not collecting birds like commemorative spoons. The placebo is yelling ‘immune system!’ at your kitchen window while microwaving a crystal.

Maryland will test, monitor, and publish data, which is bureaucrat for ‘do actual work.’ You, blessed civilian, will breathe, scroll less, and give the sky’s janitors a moment. Until then, let’s practice the new mindfulness: hear a caw, wash a hand, and resist the urge to send ten skull emojis to the group chat. Because in public health as in scavenging, timing is everything—and unlike the vultures, your sense of humor doesn’t have to be dead.