A sweet song resonated in the summer air. So harmonious were the voices, so mellifluous was the tone. A little bird, lifting its head skyward, saw a flock of birds; such beauty they flaunted, such grace in their flight. Fueled by its awe, the little bird perched on the nest's edge, opened its tiny wings, and fluttered away from home. As the flock soared in the vast blue sky, the little bird flapped its petty wings—flapping as hard it could, as fast as it could to keep up. But as the little bird traveled further away, its wings ached more and more. As the distance extended further into the horizon, its heart grew heavier and heavier. Gazing dauntingly at the backs of the birds, the little bird realized that it had left too soon: it was not ready for such a flight. But too late to turn back, it was left with two choices: it could carry on, feebly trailing and struggling behind the flock, or give up and descend onto the foreign and desolate land below. As the ache burned in its wings and despair clawed at its heart, the little bird began weep, for it had been caged by its own haste.
July 4, 2012