By Drew Corrigan, University of Vermont
As the wind blows smooth round clouds across the rock and ice in the sky, the condor soars, searching for something dead to eat. Its keen eyes drift across bleached sheep bones and wool scraps caught in neneo thorns, memories of past dinners. Now the land is almost bereft of sheep. There are still some near the ranch houses surrounded by poplars and some cattle and dogs and a few people and some fences and lots of hares, but mostly there are only sheep bones among the neneo and nardophyllum and bunchgrass and mallins and ponds with flamingoes and geese and ducks and swans and rock ridges with armadillos and foxes and caves with owls and pumas and skunks and the wind on the steppe ruffling the Nandu’s feathers and the guanaco’s wool like the ghost of glaciers in the Chacabuco valley as the condor glides silently overhead.
…













