The bird becomes the twig tree.

Do only the broken look at the cracks in the world? Crusading endlessly to fix every mirror that's not even theirs? Is it fair to the new unspoilt diamond to reflect the cracks in the shadows of the broken and fallen angel?

Pain informs art, and then the world mandated that an artist must only and always be in pain and suffering? Is it juxtaposed to say a "happy artist" - successful yes, happy, never. Redundant, isn't it then, when you hear humans seeking to be both artists and happy? Pick a struggle. The artists' dreams of the struggle. The struggling artist becomes the ideal one, the most artistic and most creative. Series of comic tragedies.

The chase begins once again. When did it truly stop? Yearning compassion, belief, happiness and creativity all at once. Only to realise that the moment the chase is over, the predator has its fangs deep inside the bones, savouring every crack.

Be like a bird, who halting in his flight on a  limp to slight, feel it give beneath her, yet sings, sings - knowing it has wings, sings knowing it has wings. Does the bird only want to hear the beauty of the crack? Does it hope that every melody and note cracks through the air and becomes broken and beautiful?

Or is the divine upright and sturdy tree more beautiful? Never bending, somehow shooting upwards and upwards, towards no possibility of a crack. Enduring every storm and wind, hoping to trap some of the air in it's wide arms. Spreads deep and collects dirt and worms together. The beauty of the blasphemous bamboo.

When does the bird become the tree? Only once the circle of life is completed? Unable to perch and collect anything apart from broken twigs the bird flies.

The flockless perish, searching for another of their feather.