Ostrich riding Thailand

THE condition of the birds at the farm was disgraceful. 

Here was my first impression: An illness rises up from my stomach into my heart as I approach the wretched ridding birds. Their little bird brains seem to be merrily clicking along, but their bodies are tattered. Half-plucked from the wear and tear of people straddling them, their gray pimpled skin shivers in the sun. In places the skin is worn pink and raw, nearly bloodied. The rachis of their wing feathers are bare, stripped of the soft vane that give a feather body. Their wings, like a tangle if twigs caught at the edge of a flooded river, cling to their sides.

That said, the Dice already dictated that I had to ride the poor bird. 

Music: Jenny's Theme by Jason Shaw