The first to fly was the worst way to mourn his death.

A sudden shot; a reaper come to take him from me.

The second to fly was the worst way to see the danger.

A warning for demise; a caution in the wind; a trap to set.

The third to fly was the worst way to find misfortune.

A distraction to throw me off; a mistake that left me abash.

The fourth to fly was the worst way to see an illness.

A broken wing; a family of feathers falling from the sky.

The fifth to fly was the best to be born again.

A silky coat; a new confidence; a grace in the skies.

The sixth to fly was the best to show its intelligence.

A way of direction; a comprehension unmatched; a clever wit.

The seventh to fly was the best to show loyalty to.

A bravery to favor; a piety equal by none; a heart of gold.

The eighth to fly was the best to help one self-reflect.

A mirror of grief; a looking glass of me; a mirage of death.