How I wish that I could transform daily. The bird is magnificent, yet has no idea what magnificence is. In the predawn mist, wrapped in its grass and straw home, each feather a masterpiece of intricacy and symmetry, it breaths slow and steadfast. Morning's silent glow wraps around her, awakening her soul to its duty; to eat, to fly, to hunt. She pursues her inner destiny with no thought of fashion, necessity, or mortality. She hunts because she must. She eats because she is hungry. That is what a bird thinks. The bird has no word for hunger, yet it knows what it is to need food. She knows no word for flight, yet spreads her wings and fulfills her existence. The man relies heavily on routine, the day to day killing his ability to live out the destiny written in his DNA. What is it that men are meant to do if the bird eats, hunts and flies, what more can a man expect from life?