Is the gift of flight wasted on a bird?

Rainbows bow before them and the misty clouds are their nests. Emperors of the Sky and all the world. Closest to the glorious winking stars and solemn old moon. All that lies beneath is theirs, but the breeze and altitude has chilled their bones with a slimy fear and their eggs burst open, quivering with this cold. This cold that has attached itself like a leech.

They roost in the cities and haunt the shore, and call to the moon in their nocturnal passages with sonnets, haikus. Home is too sweet, it sucks them in, like a chocolate hurricane and only the bitter winters can drive them away.

Has curiosity not pounced? Has it not stretched their wings to breaking point with an aching yearning for the world beyond? The world beyond what lies beneath, only beneath their dresses?

For if I was a bird, I would fly all over the earth and sing my lullabies and pay visits to the stars.

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