The condor soars, riding the updraft, its back sun-gilt, its wings stretched taught and flared at the tip, its head and eye swiveling seemingly independently, as if able to pierce any point with militant precision of vision. The condor is pure power, but knows the economy of the glide. The condor seeks something meaty, for to land on a desiccated pile of bones and fur is the worst kind of insufferable, and so he glides and watches... and glides and watches...

with piercing eye
and readiness to dive
the condor soars