Sing a song of sixpence.

The caw of a raspy crow fills the morning air like a cool breeze in the spring.  It bounces off of hillsides and echoes ever so slightly, peppering the silence with its reverberating call.  Some smaller whistles spin around in the gaps of the blackbird's cadence.  High-pitched chirps ring in optimistic counterpoint.  Signs of life outside of human agenda, musical reminders that bring to light the notion that the minutiae of one's daily routine is nothing but perception.  Physical objects only move because we move them, meaning is assigned, and what we think of as reality is merely a group hallucination replete with all the joys and fears we associate with being human.  A bird is a bird, a man is a man.  Just because we can think, and therefore assign meaning to that ability, doesn't make us any more or less of anything.  From an objective perspective, we are all just chirping birds, busy ants, and curious little monkeys.