Ensuring that like the wren flitting from branch to bush one never stays still enough
To be hit squarely
Where it hurts forever. That, of all things, is the vaunted ideal
Professed in halls of academia and glossy sheaves of luridly illustrated imagery.
Experience tells us so.
But fly on obliviously, little fellow. Into the maws
Bravely (or the corollary) we soar onward, toward the sun.
Content to burn.