Pigs flying,
more like coasting along on gale winds with geese flocking from early winter
migration. How does it feel to be a pig with wings staring into the Atlantic as
it shoots back dark stares? Hoofs frantically shifting back and forth. Behind
me is the farmer, shaking his three pronged sticks at me. There is my muddy
prison, and in front of me is freedom. Can I fly, be fleet of foot and reach
the land I love? He said to not aim for the sun and be too lofty. I'd be bacon.
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