Ever since I was a little girl, I had watched the birds dive and swoop through the air. Gliding and soaring over tree-tops and houses. When I had walked, hand-in-hand, with my Gramps through the park we’d collect their feathers. بتھ, مرغابی feathers, سوان, ہنس feathers. If we were lucky and searched hard we would sometimes come across abandoned nests with hollow eggs left inside. I would handle them with great care, like they were going to crack any منٹ and out would pop a brand new baby bird.
‘Can I be a bird, Gramps?’ I always used to ask.
‘You can. Do آپ want me to teach آپ how to be a...
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