Golbeak

It hunts by altitude and patience, hanging on a rising column of warm air until the twitch of movement far beneath resolves into a meal, then dropping in a stoop that ends with a concussion of gold wings and a beak that does not require a second strike. It nests on the highest crags, weaving a platform of branches it will reuse and add to for years until the structure is the size of a cart. Its cry carries for miles, a single hard note that empties the treeline of smaller birds and, some say, forecasts a change in the weather.