Francisco de Zurbaran The Immaculate Conception

Francisco de Zurbaran The Immaculate ConceptionArthur Hughes La Belle Dame Sans MerciArthur Hughes Ophelia
small hill . . .
. . . a tiny moving dome, ridiculously exposed . . .
No sound but the rush of wind through feathers as the eagle pulls in its wings and drops like an arrow, the world spinning around the little moving shape that is the focus of all the eagle's attention.
Closer and . . .
. . . talons down . . .
. . . grip . . .
. . . and rise . . .

"Not this one, friend," he said.
The world spun under Om as the eagle sought for shell­cracking height, and his mind was besieged by the tortoise's existential dread of being off the ground. And Brutha's thoughts, bright and clear this close to death . . .
I'm on my back and getting hotter and I'm going to die . . .Brutha opened his eyes.His back was merely agonizing. He'd long ago got used to switching off pain.But he was spread-eagled on a surface, his arms and legs chained to something he couldn't see. Sky above. The towering frontage of the temple to one side.By turning his head a little he could see the silent crowd. And the brown metal of the iron turtle. He could smell smoke.Someone was just tightening the shackles on his hand. Brutha looked over at the inquisitor. Now, what was it he had to say? Oh, yes."The Turtle Moves?" he mumbled.The man sighed.