An ostrich on the open plain looks almost designed by the horizon itself: all height, watchfulness, and improbable speed. At rest, it is sculptural — long neck raised above the grass, huge eyes measuring distance, feathers lifting in the wind. Then something changes. The body leans forward, the legs begin their extraordinary engine-work, and the bird becomes motion: dust, muscle, balance, and flightlessness turned into power. There is comedy in the ostrich, certainly — but only until it runs. Then what you feel is astonishment.