by Tom Swift

See that black bird on high. There, above the tallest tree, against the blue forever, well beyond the orange brown leaves that fall at your feet. His wings outstretched, he glides this way. Then that way. And back again.

He works not at all. He has no place he needs to be. He has nothing he needs to do. The wind is his guide.

He fights nothing.

Grasps nothing.

Wants nothing.

What a wonder it must be to sail along so free.