After many days of passing by an old and empty tree, I saw the eagle resting there today. His back was to me, but his great white head was turned in profile, golden beak sharply breaking up the softly swirled grey sky that he is free to fly through, mixing up its colors with the paintbrush tips of feathered wings. I would take it gladly as a sign of strength, persistence, dignity. But he can fly, and try as I might, I never will.
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hey! i love the post. i love the vividness. and flying, thats itself i think could be metaphorical. its a thought, i think, of how far you can go in life beyond the circumstances.
don’t you think?