The bird stood atop a branch in gaze of something that was unfamiliar to the human eye.
It was a simple bird really. Although lacking in vibrant color, it was beautiful in its own reality as if pain had never touched it.
As I sat there on the faded, wood porch in the presence of the November air, I was reminded of my ignorance.
The bird had of course looked its failures in the eyes, because it had indeed chosen to fly when falling was inevitable.
