To my beloved wife, Veronica Winters

It is alright to be misunderstood.
The higher you fly the less there is air to breathe.
The altitude is suffocating.

It is alright to be alone.
Eagles do not flock.
They soar impossibly high
And fall like rocks,
Opening their wings at the last possible moment
Gently kissing the ground,
Daringly cheating death
In the most casual way.

Building nests on cliffs
It is not for faint-hearted.
This grim citadel of alone-ness
Does not invite companionship.

Yet even in this fortress of solitude
There is always a pair.
The chicks too will grow defiant
And resentful of the world beneath:
The world of prey,
The world that attracts waste
By gravity,
The world we do not belong to.

We are born into the clouds,
But it is our wings that make us soar!
It is the choices that we make every day
When we throw ourselves into the unknown.

We challenge the wind and the sun!
We tread on mountain tops!
We are held afloat by the breath of God,
The breath that we capture so easily.

Forget the earth.
Be free with me in this desolation!
Soar with me until we die!

Then meet your death in one final plunge.
Even in the end the last thrust of an eagle
Is dreadful to mice.

I despise the vermin.

The final screech is piercing.

Salute the solitude, you fool.