condor

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.

 

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

your opening V is absolutely a joy to behold. while I knew the poem was about the majestic condor, which you so aptly conjure in your poem, that opening V lifted me to top of imaginary heights. Can and is a metaphor so so so many imagined possibilities

ken

[Vol]

Helena,
I've only seen condors at the Grand Canyon, and think how smooth and regal they are, no matter what their naked head looks like with it's tiny curled beak. And nearby the ravens like little thugs who also fly, but don't look so elegant because they haven't quite learned to sail...
Who needs video when there are words like yours?
Vol

[JR]

A wonderful description of flight, I could find myself joining her... but I'm not sure where we are flying to. Maybe it's flight for the sake of freedom? Maybe I, like her, can't see where we fit into the scheme of things? A good read, excellent word choice.