A single, lone misaasa tree extends high above the forest canopy. Atop this natural wooden pillar, one dark strange shape breaks the uniform, circular pattern of this particular tree's bouquet. Silhouetted black against the crisp descent of the sun, a vulture sleeps soundly with his bald, scarred head resting softly on his shoulder. Scruffy feather's out of pattern and place moving lightly in the warm afternoon breeze.
A foreign sound comes in waves, at first like a whisper with the southerly wind. The vultures eyes flicker open, alerted by the un-natural humming noise. He cranes his neck, looking lazily for the source of this disruption. There through the shimmers of heat, he spots it, at first only a white speck coming slowly towards him. The vultures interest grows and with two quick blinks of his sharp eyes the object comes rapidly into focus.
The vulture realises what he see's and sighs again in dis-interest. Many times before he has seen this un-shapely, red and white man-made creature flying noisily over head. It is the only other flyer in this expansive, in-hospitable area that the bird calls home. With one last non-chalant blink the scavenger lowers his head slowly to his shoulder, eyelids closing heavy and content.
The pilot configures his 40 year old, rough and ever-faithful Cessna for the approach. His eyes scanning the now dramatic, orange and yellow landscape. One last radio call echoes into the empty abyss that surrounds him on 124.100. Smiling warmly he realises that he too is all alone, except maybe for one cantankerous, scruffy vulture soaring on the wing or sleeping in a tall tree somewhere.
One last weary glance finds him his destination, even though he is thousands of miles from everything he knows. He found something.
He found home.
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