High above I scan below, drifting swiftly on currents acridly scented. It is hard to hunt when the breeze brings not prey, but choking smoke. Plumes rise from tubes, great clouds that are not clouds and to be avoided.
Winging around, I face the cross breeze, hoping to spot movement in the brown below. Everything is brown, and sometimes gray. The water, the sky, the concrete, and the forest.
I fought yesterday. I fight every day. One of my kind had found good prey. I was hungry. I battled for it. I lost.
I fought today. I fought to find a tree not within another’s territory. I fought to find a tree near prey. I fought to find a place to roost, to seek a mate, and to thrive.
Great machines crawl across the land, tearing down trees, creating more acrid smells, bringing more gray and brown. The prey runs. Sometimes the prey dies. I eat. A tree not too near the machines, but close, too; for prey, for survival.
I soar until I grow weary. Perching, head under wing, I sleep.