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The wind did not merely carry the golden

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eagle.

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It was a river he had navigated since

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he was a fledgling,

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a rushing current of cold mountain air born

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from the jagged peaks far below.

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With a single, effortless shift of his wide

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wings, he tilted into a thermal,

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letting the invisible current press against the intricate,

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detailed plumage of his back.

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Every feather caught the brilliant sunlight,

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flashing like spun bronze against the endless, piercing

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blue of the high -altitude sky.

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Below him, the world fell away into a

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dramatic valley of shadowed stone and

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rushing glacial rivers, a breathtaking expanse where few

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creatures dared to tread.

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He was the undisputed master of this domain,

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a majestic spirit of the wilderness riding the

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silence of the high ridges.

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He cast his sharp, amber gaze downward, scanning

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the scree slopes and

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pine forests for the slightest movement,

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a silent observer holding court over the ancient,

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snow -dusted mountains.

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Suddenly, a heavier gust slammed against the canyon

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walls, and he leaned into it,

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folding his pinions just enough to carve a

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sweeping arc through the bright air.

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He did not flap, he simply existed in

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the slipstream, a streak of gold and

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shadow diving deeper into the vastness, vanishing smoothly

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into the heart of

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the open sky.