The hawk and the vulture

I stared into the skies and took the shape for a hawk, proud and beautiful and merciless, soaring the blue sky. It was up above, far away; and yet I could see the glimmer of its eyes, scouring the land below for helpless prey. For a moment I imagined it tracking it, and plunging from the clouds in a swift, and unstoppable stroke that would mean certain death above the ground. However, as the shape drew near, I realized my mistake. It was no hawk, but a vulture. There was no beauty in its twisted shape of black feathers and hook-shaped beak. There was no pride in its bent, naked neck. There was no mercilessness in its jet-black eyes - only cruelty, which is ruthless but without justice. A vulture. A scavenger, stealing dead bodies, feasting on the rotten remains of whatever others have left behind, no matter how, when or why.