Ouroboros Spine on the wing

Altai gave a soft gurgle and began to preen, realigning the delicate filaments of feather that her tumbling had put into disarray with a well-practiced toss of her head. It was a perk of being at the top of the aerial food chain that she could allow for such blatant disregard for danger - a raven would be more likely to harry a bird of prey than the reverse, and her chicks had long since fledged and were no longer at any great risk of becoming a meal. She could preen, sun herself, or nap in peace.

A distant shadow of movement caught her eye between bouts of feather picking, and Altai paused. The identity of the creature would determine her degree of future interest in it, but the pine boughs still mostly obscured her view. Another gurgle escaped her bill and she hopped down from the crown of the tree to a lower perch. She cocked her head and stared down the direction from which she anticipated the creature to come, eyes glimmering at the prospect of a meal or simply something to harass.