Nothing in the human world replicates the freedom of winged flight. But dreams and art, which suspend us in their own realities, come close. Especially the dreams of flight. The birds alert us not to things but to movement and change, to revelation. Birds rise and fall and soar. Their nature is malleable, unnamable - as fluid and free as the imagination.
The material world is merely a veil. Wounds are merely doorways. Our bodies, merely cages. The feeling of ascension and flight, of being set free from the weight of being, is one of death's promises. We are assured flight in the fall into death.
Flight from the body. Flight of the spirit.
Birds are the perfect metaphor for the secret passage of the soul.'