I surround myself with people who are certain.

They wake up with the birds do in summer

And they fly to avoid the snow coming in

Refusing to let the heat they need to survive to die 

No one ever told me everything I need to know 

I assumed summer was for sleeping in 

That each day would be an opportunity to not make the best of anything 

The only money I concerned myself with was that which I'd used to buy condensed sugar 

I'm not jealous about how a bird flies 

For they were thrown off a cliff, but had someone to teach them 

or they had the strength to learn to flap their own wings 

I'm more so scared of if I've already fallen 

Is it too late for me? 

Has the day finished, have the birds earned themselves rest?

Am I invited to the institution which raises eagles instead of pigeons?

Can I still make something of myself, before the sun rises and I can no longer fly?

Every day a bird wakes up 

It may be their last

Each flap carries them further but is it far enough 

One could say they're hopeful because they're uncertain.