Parked neatly between the white lines, content to wade in a shallow pool, dodging shoppers and carts and cars.

Skimming the oil stained surface for scraps washed from the gutter by the rain, cookie crumbs tossed by shrieking children,
day old sticky buns from the nearby dumpster.

His image distorted by the ripples of false contentment until he no longer recognizes himself as the wild thing he is.

No longer remembers that he is meant for better things. No longer remembers that the Winn Dixie parking lot is a poor substitution for the sea. No longer remembers that he has a choice.
No longer remembers that he has feathers and wings.
No longer remembers that he can fly.