something about flying The mountain air was cold, crisp, and thin. They still surrounded him on all sides, tall and powerful and almost threatening, but from this high up, Sylvester no longer felt as trapped as he had on the ground. The sky was bright above him, and the forests below were spread out and impossibly small. A breeze whistled past his face, embraced his wings.
For the first time in a long while, he felt free. This was how his kind was supposed to be, he thought: high above the earth, racing with the clouds, and as far from the inferiors as they could get.
It was quieter up here, too. For the moment he could hear nothing but the wind, the cry of a