She is still unused to her body, though it has its perks. One minute she delights in it, and the next she mourns her bird form. The force that placed her on the sidewalk seems not to work in reverse. She can mutter her prayers to whatever mechanism converted her, but she remains decidedly human. She feels this most in her chest - she misses the comparative grandeur of her sternum, for instance, which previously held the muscular base for her wings - and her bones, which no longer hold small pockets of air. But what she misses most, of course, are the wings themselves, what she sees now is their wild sprawl, and the ability to compress herself into a tight, hurtling arrow, to slice the spaces where a pigeon dodders along, oblivious. Nevertheless, the pleasures of fingers and feet and skin... are considerable compensation at times.