That bird I see perched on the uppermost branch of a tree – does it sense its mortality?
Does it feel a compulsion to fill its days with duty, or does it enjoy the splendour of frivolous fun?
As its wings beat and flight is taken, what does it think?
Do birds have thoughts?
How fleeting its life must be, amid the perils of wind and weather, prey and predator.
Tears come as I ponder all this. Why, I don’t know.
Is it because the sense of mortality I know feel seems so wingless? It doesn’t fly away from the psyche of my soul.
When did it begin? Where did it come from? Do others reach a point in life where the days ahead seem so much shorter than the days left behind?
I wish for these thoughts to take flight, as the bird on the branch now has.
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