Look to the sky,

While the last leaf of the great oak falls

And see the branches full of nothing but stale air.

         Except,

when you look at the very top branch,

there perched is a single bird.

–

Birdwatching was never really a hobby of mine,

until I watched the single crow flit from

                                                           branch

                                                                          to

                                                                                  branch,

as their spread wings guarantee that of freedom from the ground,

because freedom to fly,

is the freedom of choice and chance;

of self-determination to decide through dreaded misery.

–

When I decided that I wanted to fly,

I was 10.

I wanted to touch the sky,

as if I were Icarus and sprouted wings of wax and feather,

black like coal,

with an oil slick of colour beneath the ingenious invention’s mechanics

much like the sheen of a crow’s.

And so I soared into the sky, and there wasn’t a thing that could stop me.

Until I,

much like Icarus,

learned that you should not try to touch the sun,

when you are made of wax that

                                                    drips,

                                                            drips,

                                                                    drips,

                                   off the tips of your wings,

                             the feathers,

                       floating down,

                like ink sinking in the ocean.

–

No one appreciates the beauty of falling until they do it.

When the whistling in your bones as you’re hurtling towards the ground

sounds like a melancholy melody of resignation,

and you pass the crow on the top branch as you hit the ground.