From a Rock Ridge

Above the heat the sky is flecked with ice, high country has its own climate. The sun is no longer burning, it’s a ghost lamp swept by the rags of a coat-tailing wind. I'm on a high ledge watching. There it is - arriving out of a far place, a living cliché, a Bald Eagle It must have caught a thermal, I wonder does it see my significance or insignificance here alone with vastness above and below? The eagle veers away turning deeper into the ice-blue. We are both vanishing.