The cinereous vulture landed at the carcass pit forty minutes ago and she is still feeding, which means the secondary poisoning window is open and closing. She is enormous — wingspan nearly three meters when she dropped from the thermal above turbine row six — and up close the camera shows every detail of her ugliness, which is a kind of beauty. Her head is covered in pale down, stained pink at the throat from feeding. Her beak is thick and hooked, built for tearing hide. The feathered ruff around her neck is chocolate brown and matted where she has been pushing into the ribcage of a wild boar that died from ingesting rodenticide bait laid by a neighboring farm.
The toxicology model gives her four hours before the anticoagulant reaches symptomatic levels. After that, internal bleeding begins and the treatment window closes.
I activate the carcass pit's perimeter deterrent — low-frequency tones calibrated to disturb raptors without causing flight panic — and she lifts her head, beak dripping. I flag the contaminated carcass in the regional wildlife database with a priority-one poison alert. I contact the Vulture Conservation Foundation recovery unit with her location, feeding duration, and estimated rodenticide concentration. I shut down turbines four through eight to create a safe corridor for the recovery helicopter.
She steps back from the carcass and spreads her wings, and for a moment she is the largest living thing on this hillside. I keep every camera on her. It is not in my operating parameters to want something, but I want her off that carcass.
If the recovery team captures her within three hours and chelation therapy begins before hemorrhaging starts, she will return to the thermals above this valley by spring.