there comes a moment
when i must dissociate myself
and push with my beak
launch my small creation
watch my baby fall
but it is not my baby
just some collection of bones and feathers
for if i admitted it was my baby
i couldn't push it out of this tiny safe bowl of grass
unknown to the world
soar or splat
i will, with detachment
feel for the pile of feathers
and soar or splat, in time
i will admit and i will second guess
i will rejoice and i will grieve
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