Condor Wings

This is a poem for my "National Park" project from a trip taken in May, 2003








C ircling around the stone balconies
O n updrafts from the Grand Canyon,
N ot concerned with human onlookers,
D ark birds with giant wingspans glide
O ver the deep canyon cliffs while
R angers sing their praises.

W e stand in the North Rim lodge
I nterested, but preoccupied,
N ot knowing how rare the sightings.
G athering the wind gusts under their feathers,
S himmering condor wings move through bright blue skies.

From the corner of my eye as I stand in the lobby,
through the bank of windows overlooking the Grand Canyon,
I see huge black shapes soaring over the cliffs
and groups of people gathered on the stone balconies.

“Oh,” says the woman at the desk,
“those are condors, there’s a ranger out there talking about them.”
I stoop down to get a better look, to see the huge birds,
with their enormous wings, their bald, scabby-looking heads.

“How nice,” I thought. “We will have to catch this talk tomorrow.”
Now we need to check in, unpack the car, grab some lunch.
Not thinking logically, that there would be no lecture to attend.
Condors do not fly on a schedule or by command.