Sometimes I wonder if birds got a raw deal. They come closest to heaven but every cloud is a red herring for the real trapdoor into the supernatural. They can take short breaks from humanity’s indiscretions but ultimately they too must be part of the dance. So while they whistle songs of the free, they only move to the tune of the enslaved. The strings that keep them in flight; the Puppeteer in all His glory ensures that they will never fly higher than what was intended. They may spend their days in the skies but their bodies will inevitably rest on the earth. So home is where they nest because even for them, paradise is met with great limitation.