The warm summer wind parts my feathers as I soar above man. I inhale; the mixture of grass, dew, and stale bread will never get old. To me, it smells like home. I gaze down at the humans below me with pity filled eyes. I suppose I feel sorry for them, being bound to earth with such a simple thing as gravity. I dart about, chirping a merry tune I heard last when the coldness fell from the heavens. When I listen to the children, they say it's about Jesus. I slow my velocity and perch on a rather comfortable oak branch, thinking rather alien thoughts. They say this Jesus made everything, and that he knows his creations by name. They even say he loves them all. Does he love me? In the sky, I am free and powerful. I can do things no man can. Is this arrogant? When I come to the ground, I am below man, and they thoroughly recognize this. Men shoo me away with their walking sticks, dogs chase me. I am not naive; I hear worried mothers scorning me, telling their curious children not to touch me. That I am disease ridden. No human wants me. This Jesus, he's human. I've seen him during the cold days before I depart for the season. He lays in a manger, yet everyone calls him a king. Surely a king wouldn't know me, wouldn't want me if his subjects reject me. I suddenly feel heavy, as though a plethora of stones have been tied to my wings and I'm sinking lower than any living thing before me has. I want to be loved by a king.