of a fowl sort

What is this?

This cyclical introspection I go through. What seems to be about every seventeen days.

Am I really willed?

Purposefully?

I mean I know You've said it, written it, expressed it.

But I look and function nothing like that.

Like who what?

Compared to the beasts of the air, even knowing they are lesser than I, I'm comparing a standard of existence to one I've never known.

I wasn't born in a nest.

No bill,

beak,

or crest.

I don't have the intentioned arc of a wing that scores itself against the sky.

I have a keyboard. Doesn't make me much of a writer though.

Probably an eloquent complainer.

Does my humanness have that?

Even though purpose feels foreign to my being.

You know, I just recently started living again.

I don't passively exist in my own mind.

I don't do a lot of things.

For whatever reason it grieves me.

The not doing.

I want to be a bird.

I'd like to soar.

Birds have an innate knowing that on the way down, they can always go back up.