Rise.

A small white feather lofts idly into a perfect red-orange sunset, urged on by warm winds, up and up and up it floats into the atmosphere, kissing the sun goodnight and dancing with the northern lights, laying with the moon, adored by the stars, so are we, always rising.  We ebb and flow like the blue sea herself, like all things that are natural and right, but I feel that our tide rises always a shade more than she falls, so soon we will go forth to kiss the sun and lay with the moon, and if the night is right, we can dance among the northern lights too, and the stars will admire how we shine.