High you fly, bound by no bounds,
Silhouetted against the crimson night.
Graceful in thy skill,
Perfect in flight.
What force is it that keeps you suspended?
How do you sail on a blanket of air?
What master holds thy strings?
What master manipulates thy movements?
Do you stalk your prey and kill?
Or do you pray no prey to be?
What’s your purpose? What’s your plan?
Silhouetted against the crimson night.

I like this one. I very rarely write about nature or anything related, but for some reason I wrote this one - I don't know why. The whole illusion - you watch birds fly and you wonder if by some grace of God you too would be able to do that. The story of that boy who attached feathers to his hands with wax and tried to fly but fell and died because he flew too close to the sun comes to mind. At least he tried ... how many of us try to fly?