America is beautiful. From its fragile birds to its magnificent predators. I have visited many beautiful places in my life time and none compare to this wonderful land of freedom. We the birds are liberated from all restraints here in this wonderful place. We the birds are free to jump and hide from all that pursue us. And who is it that follows we the birds? Why no other then the glorious predators. Munching and tearing at our minds and sometimes our bodies, until one day we are finally released from our unconstitutional freedoms.

            What chance do we the birds have against the predators that precariously sit atop the broken branches of their high trees? It depends how strong we are, how we chose to fight, and the words we use. Because, these rights are all given to us birds in this land of milk and honey. We the birds might even become a predator if it so suits us. We will climb and claw our way to the tree tops either to be pushed off and land with a broken wing or be pulled up to the nest, welcomed with open arms. I believe we the birds climb with honest intentions to mend the broken branches of the trees. But on our way to the top we are blinded by sudden rain storms, specks of dust, or other birds flying by. Ambition is either lost or falters.

            We the birds come to this land of opportunity and freedom in search of food and shelter. From the amber waves of grain to the purple mountain majesties we the birds fly high and sing of all our joys, all our depressions, all our hopes. Hopes that cannot be stolen or killed by even the highest predators. Hope that makes us strive for something greater then ourselves. And from this height we are able to take in more surroundings, more beauty then most other animals. We can see the multicolored pebbles under a river as they glimmer in the sun's reflection for a few seconds and then are tossed underneath by new rocks that are also determined to have their time to shine. We the birds can see the tree tops where our brethren strive to climb up to. We the birds can see graceful packs of wolves stalking their own kin, waiting for a perfect opportunity to strike and tear at their throats.

            No matter how glorious the land may be, a bird is a bird and a wolf is wolf. A bird might pretend to were the fur of a wolf and use the wolf's tongue, but we the birds will always be able to flap our wings and be forced to peck at the ground for sustenance. But that is the the beauty of America, it has many means of obscuring we the birds. We may feverously roll around in crusty mud puddles if we chose to be brown one day, we may frolic in the luscious grass if we choose to be green for the day, we may even smoother ourselves in the plump blue berries from the bushes if we chose to be blue for the day, but it will eventually rain and our newly obtained color will be washed away reveling our pure white truffles of feathers, but our hope makes us believe that tomorrow we may even be red if we chose. But a bird is a bird and we the birds will always strive to obtain that which not even our freelancing flights can take us to.