The Thermal Surfer
Up in the sky, a hawk carves loops, surfing warm air like it ditched its troops. Wings spread wide in a feathery grin, doing aerial donuts just to show it can win. It banks left hard like, "Watch this trick," then rides a thermal so smooth, so slick. You'd swear it practiced in secret at night with tiny sunglasses and a pilot's delight. Below, the squirrels gasp in awe, the crows file complaints with avian law, and a passing gull mutters, "Show-off..." while the hawk just flexes and drifts aloft. It spirals higher with zero stress, a floating, soaring, sky-born surfer that couldn't cares less. If clouds had judges, they hold up tens. The hawk bows once... then loops again, because why flap wings like a normal bird when you can ride hot air like the worlds coolest nerd? A thermal surfer, a sky top jock, the legend, the myth, the Red-Shouldered Hawk.
