Black Bird

"You know what I like about air?" said the crow to the angel.
"What's that?"
"How deep it is."
"How deep it is?" asked the angel.
"You know," said the crow. "The troposphere. We've got six miles, at the very least, to play in. Eleven miles in some places, if you can stand the cold."
"Oh," said the angel. "I didn't know that."
"Yup," screeched the crow. "We fly like fish swim - all layered and tumbling, under and over each other. It's so terrific."
"It is pretty terrific," said the angel, kicking her feet against the chimney she was sitting on, lighting up a cigar.

"I like," said the crow again, "I like that those long-legged land lumberers are stuck on only one plane."
"I think you like alliteration," said the angel. "And shiny things."
"Very true." said the crow. "Those people though, they're kind of trapped in a flat playing space, aren't they?"
"Ya," said the angel.
"Stuck in an existence that isn't really reality - isn't the whole story."
The crow looked at the angel and winked, "Caught, you might say, between heaven and hell."
The angel rolled her eyes and flicked a flake of tobacco from her tongue.

"Poor kids," said the crow, sadly.
"Ya," said the angel. "They dream they're flying, all the time."