On a day far more like February than March, I watched a turkey vulture struggle against a raging headwind along a southern Brooklyn street. I could see its destination: an unfortunate rabbit, flattened in the middle of the road. With a frothy Jamaica Bay for a background, the vulture extended its feet with the peculiar, almost respectful grace of a carrion eater, and had committed to landing when a speeding patrol car changed its plans.

Perhaps this was a young bird, or it misunderstood the effects of its own broad wings in gale-force winds. The vulture raised its forewing only slightly, and in an instant the wind ripped through the bird’s long primary feathers and whisked it, teetering, into the maelstrom. It looked more like a ragged garbage bag than a bird.

Such is the life of an urban vulture.

The turkey vulture (Cathartes aura) is abundant throughout the Northeast, but this was not the case even a century ago, when the birds began to appear with more regularity throughout New England. Though some turkey vultures migrate into Central and South America, many are not truly migratory, moving only far enough south to avoid winter’s worst weather. I have learned to look for these large birds as they return through New York City as early as late February.

With a wingspan measuring over five feet and a proportionately low body weight, turkey vultures have what is commonly described as a buoyant flight pattern. In flight, the birds also hold their wings in a very recognizable V shape known as a dihedral, rarely needing more than a flap or two every few minutes to attain impressive heights as they ride thermal updrafts. Though turkey vultures appear uniformly dark at a distance, their wings are two-toned: a dark front half, followed by the silvery gray undersides of their secondary feathers.