Damn. That feathered thing is more stubborn than I am. Still soaring though she has no tangible reason for doing so. Hope has no logic, no memory, no doubt. Her obstinate, inexorable mission is to fly. Fly on, fly on. To do anything else is in direct conflict with her very name. She lands briefly at contentment or fulfillment, joy or peace. What else can I do but comply when she invites me to grab on as she launches herself once more, defiant in the face of question and defeat. It gets better, she whispers.