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poem

Condor

She rises, glides without a wing beat

up another curve she just invented,

bending the thin air to her purpose.

She turns her head, forever watching,

and her still standing in the airstream forces

a fine music through each flight feather.

Not that she cares. She lifts a wing tip,

shoots off to the far side of the valley,

becomes a black speck on the huge clouds

that have spent their energies

in rain shrouded lightning flashes,

and swings back again, a pendulum

suspended stringless from infinity.

Young and curious, she can’t see where

we fit into the scheme of things,

then loses interest, goes her way,

and far off, soars again,

feathered physicist investigating

each dimension of her element

with easy genius, balancing

huge forces on the tilt of a wing.