The vulture, the king of the plateau, often circles alone under a clear sky. They are not the elegant white cranes, nor the graceful peacocks, but they have their own unique charm and style.
When I first saw the vultures, their bare heads seemed to be a unique mark given to them by nature. That's not because they're lazy and don't groom their feathers, it's because they're needed to survive. They feed on carrion, and their bare heads are a sign of their adaptation.
When the sun shines, the vultures soar freely in the sky like black elves. Their wings are wide and powerful, and with every swing, it is as if they are paying homage to the sky. That sharp gaze, piercing through the clouds, looking straight into the distance, looking for traces of life.
Above the wasteland, the vultures are the watchmen of life. They silently observe the world, watching life come and go. They are not sad, because that is the law of nature, the cycle of life. They just wait quietly, waiting for the next flight.
Sometimes, vultures also stay alone on the cliffs, overlooking the world below. Those deep eyes seemed to tell something. Is it reverence for life, or anticipation for the future? We don't know. But we can feel that there is a great power in that lonely figure.
Vultures interpret the true meaning of life in their own way. It tells us that life is short, but we can choose how to go about it. Do you choose comfort or challenge? Do you choose to escape, or do you choose to face it?
