Pivoting on gravity.
I heard the bird. Heard it sing, heard it cry. An ice wind on small features, gray, tired. Simple stalks, foot to branch, heavied down with a day's coldblooded harvest. Is this happiness? No, just a mere biology of existance. A bird, a man, a family. Biologies woven, spliced and sequenced and blended and birthed. Paths of inevitability markered out and started down. Through the sky, currents and vacancies carry the bird, tree to fence to grass to nest. Looking down, seeing us ants, laughing as it gyroscopes free, gravity the only pivot. Climbing this volume of air, this dimensional nothing of invisible friction, feather and bone contort to pull, push and clamber up. There's a stickhome out out there somewhere, a thatch of treebones hidden as a silhouette. That's where safety waits, where biology can rest, where time can work on consciousness, where a day can be regurgitated. From here, a cry, raw-sharp and quick, taunted through the wind, "Come dark, come cold, I am of you, I do not fear".