Fly Away

There's this whimsical part of me that wonders whether flightless birds ever ache to sail on the currents that run through the clouds; to peer up into the vastness of the great void of the night sky from up on high, then to look down upon the lakes and rivers and seas shimmering in the moonlight. To see the susurration of the reeds as they dance through still waters in the fresh mornings breeze; and the fields of grain bloom into pulsing gold, marking a dying yet fruitful harvest-sea.

There's a part of me that wonders, do they hear the siren calls of those that float in the twilight hour, and dream of what might be? Do the birds with bones as slight as the feathers they are cloaked in ever laugh at the flightless birds ungainly beaks? Do they squawk and jeer, do they ever think, what it would mean, to wander on two feet?