Clones: Freedom
by Tavisha
Once upon a time, there'd been a man named Tavisha who died from internal bleeding after being heroic and later asked to be buried.
Since then, he's considered: broken necks in glass panes, monstrous blurry cars, getting stupid enough to tangle wings among the bird spikes that line the nicer buildings in a flurry of spitting feathers and flying flecks of blood. But most of the time, he flies, on the wings of soaring hawks or silent owls or fluttery sparrows.
Diets of insects, seeds, scattered berries.
(There is a greater freedom than even the sky. Tavisha will find it.)