On the bird road

The unknown poet of Beowulf called the sea the "whale road," so I guess flying counts as the bird road. If all goes according to plan, El Cabrero will be airbound for Okinawa when this is posted. This extract from Whitman has appeared here before, but it seems to fit.

AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.


Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.


The earth—that is sufficient;
I do not want the constellations any nearer;
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them...


I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all great poems also; I think I could stop here myself, and do miracles;
(My judgments, thoughts, I henceforth try by the open air, the road;)
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me;
I think whoever I see must be happy.


From this hour, freedom!
From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines,
Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute,
Listening to others, and considering well what they say,
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating,
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.


I inhale great draughts of space;
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.


I am larger, better than I thought;
I did not know I held so much goodness...

From "Song of the Open Road," Walt Whitman