I flutter feebly, with damaged wing, determined to avoid a reckoning with Nature, who’s given me many a gift, but not the one I seek to lift me near the cloud-strewn heights above, where you soar and spin to my delight, my love. No matter the pain, I will sustain my effort; I still float above the ground, though at a far closer distance from where you are found. No celestial heights will I obtain. But it’s enough to still the pain, to follow your movement, arc and dive, less gracefully, but still I thrive in feeling the currents of air and mist and the force of gravity that I resist. The whistling wind is our haven and home; away from earthly troubles, we roam. As long as I can see you there-- flying, and tempting me to dare to mimic your movement and your power-- I can put off the reckoning hour.