The griffon vulture strips a large animal to bare bone in hours. Not with brute force, but with precision and total commitment, plunging its bare head deep into the body cavity where the work actually is. You have this same willingness to go where others won't, to engage with what everyone else has already walked past.
Griffon vultures are thermal riders. They spend hours ascending invisible columns of warm air, covering enormous distances without a single wingbeat, reading the sky through pressure and heat. They do not search randomly. They watch other vultures, track the geometry of circling birds miles away, and triangulate toward a conclusion. You work the same way. You gather signal from the periphery, synthesize what others treat as noise, and arrive at clarity through patience and lateral vision. When you finally move, it is because you have already done the work of knowing.
Remove the griffon vulture from its ecosystem and the landscape begins to rot. Disease spreads from carcasses that decompose slowly without a scavenger capable of consuming them completely. The vulture is infrastructure. The people around you rely on you to process what they cannot, to absorb the difficult material, to finish what was left unresolved. When you disengage, the unfinished things do not disappear. They accumulate and contaminate. You are the one who actually closes the loop.