Condor

He rises, glides without a wing beat

up another curve he just invented,

bending the thin air to his purpose.

He turns his head, forever watching,

and his still standing in the airstream forces

a fine music through each flight feather.

Not that he cares. He 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, he can’t see where

we fit into the scheme of things,

then loses interest, goes his way,

and far off, soars again,

feathered physicist investigating

each dimension of his element

with easy genius, balancing

huge forces on the tilt of a wing.

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