His hands are wrinkled and spotted, the veins popping from his skin like forest streams, indigo and purple pulsing through with a calm rhythm. His nails are cracked and rough and one is missing on his right hand from adventures left long in the past. In his palm, he cradles a small cardinal, bright red feathers nestled comfortably into the creases. He nudges it a bit; it tentatively spreads its wings. They flutter a bit as the bird takes in the old familiar feeling, and suddenly the bird is soaring into the sky, singing a tune of freedom and joy, the man left on the ground behind him.