When I was young, I would often stare with shaky eyes onto the mountains; its valleys and cliffs. Ooh, how I often longed only to touch them, to have that which my heart longed for.
One mourning the sky was bright red velvet that stretching from end to end. The air was clean and cold I jumped into the wind like an old pro. Liquid through my wingtips I could fly. I went to the hills I dove through the valleys, my heart pumped and I cried into the wind.
CRACK< CRACK Noise rang off in the distance. Feathers flew about me and I was flung to the dirt.
Looking up I watched the sky fade from red to black. The footsteps of a hunter off in the distance.
Birds Have No Freedom.