El condor no pasa.

Dawn was a slobber drooled from fangs of giants.

We willed the canyon clogging mist to shift.

The Colca River roiled beneath the silence,

muffed in cloud.  Snow-caps snarled.  We got shoved

about by tour groups,  guffawing and looking miffed

to see no condors.  Us,  we found some plusses,

hummingbirds,  sierra finch,  Andean swift,

but naturally the guides were worse than useless.

They shrugged and steered their clients back towards the buses.

The trippers file to their seats,  muttering as if

they’d booked the birds to soar about this haunt.

The coaches throttle up and grumble off.

A crowd of hawkers wait the bus we want.

The veil of mist dispels.  Three condors flaunt

their power of flight,  wattles wobbling.  They tease,

I swear to God,  they spread themselves to taunt

the coaches as they distance down to toys,

primaries splayed like stiff fingers flicking Vs.