He wanted to do things, to see the world and even the world beyond; that took the gift of flight. And if he could not earn it then he would steal it and the day was coming. Not but a few months away He would arrive in the City, bringing with Him His fame and glory and, of course, His flight. Mig could have gone to Him, but instead he would wait and prepare and number the things he would go and do once he could fly. Really fly.
Mig envied the birds. It had begun as a silly game of his, an inside joke between himself and the birds (who weren't actually in on it). He would shake his fist playfully at them as they darted hither and thither between the branches of the trees and across the street, up into the holly that dotted his block. Soon the joke became a bitter dispute, jealousy for their simple freedom. Mig didn't look at birds much anymore. Mostly, he just waited for Him.
All the while, there were Dreams. He dreamed of white walls, fractious waves that roiled and became immensely tall. He sailed, only a few feet about the waves on his white wings, then came the waves. As high as he flew, as hard as he beat his wings the waves caught him. They drowned him. He felt the air crushed out of his bird-lungs and felt his feathers soak and the world turn to water. Often he would attempt to put his odd emotions into words:
Along the water-front there rests a gentling sea
and by it's mouth, along its lines a trouble waits for me.
For should I choose to up and fly along those easy lines
no harm should come, no wings undone as up and up I climb;
but should I cross that hated strand and move into the Sea,
then the wave turns to geyser and groping hands come for me.
Now he need only wait.