There is a dream that haunts us in sleep, lifting us weightless through night visions only to wake us earthbound again. For centuries, we have craved to rise, to soar, to free ourselves from gravity's tyranny. We fashioned wings from wax and feathers, canvas and metal. Finally we learned to fly, but never to master it.

Birds simply play in the sky, writing invisible paths across the heavens, tracing routes we cannot follow, slipping between earth and cloud as if borders mean nothing.

In dreams, we remember this freedom. In waking, we watch them disappear into blue. Birds embody what we long for—untethered, unburdened, belonging to the open air.