As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze. Gaining and failing they are buffeted by a dark wind - But what? On harsh weedstalks the flock has rested - the snow is covered with broken seed husks and the wind tempered with a shrill piping of plenty.
Old age is a flight of small cheeping birds skimming bare trees above a snow glaze.
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