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She had been given (by the powers that choose such things) the wings of a wren. Being young and innocent, she cried, "Wings! Wings!" for wings were much desired among the possible gifts.
No one told her how to use them, for this was not the way. The using was to be learned. Having seen, once, the majestic soaring of the turkey vulture, hawk, and eagle, and the delicate feather-twitching that directed these paragons along the air currents, she knew immediately how she wanted to use her wings.
Hiding behind a fallen and rotting tree trunk near the river, she watched a turkey vulture. His initial ascent, even she had to admit, was ungainly. Practically unsuccessful. But there he was, finally, fully launched into the air and floating on the whims of the wind.
This was her vision. She moved to her own launching pad and, running as fast as she could, she flapped and flapped her little wings. Her flapping was actually much more rapid than the turkey vulture's, and she rose into the air with no trouble at all.
Still beating her wings furiously, she rose higher until she could sense the flowing wind beneath her. At this point she spread her little wren wings as far as they would go and stopped flapping, just as the turkey vulture had.
And she sank like the proverbial stone, straight toward the ground. With extraordinary presence of mind for one so young, she activated her wings after only a few moments of this free fall, while still well above the treetops.
As she flew again, little wings beating hard and fast, she faced the sad reality. Not all wings are the same. Those with wren wings will perforce lead a wren's existence—not a bad thing in itself, of course, but different from the soaring of eagles and hawks and, yes, turkey vultures.
There's a moral here.
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