A bird flies high overhead with its wings stretched wide and strong. It glides on the air with ease and grace. It has been traveling a considerable distance without touching the ground and lets nothing distract it from its journey.
I assume it does not get weary.
I assume it is not tired.
I assume flight is easy.
For a bird.
As the bird becomes nothing more than a deep black spec among the clouds, it does not occur to me that it might struggle to stay aloft in the wind. My mind skips over the idea of birds on the ground for nourishment and rest. There is no chance a bird would ever want to be anything other than itself.
Birds take flight above the chaos.
Birds soar where I can only dream.
Birds reach near the stars and never look back.
It has no time to pause and wonder what it is like to be me.