Old Kite Poem by Malsawmi Jacob

Dark brown, with battered weather-beaten feathers,
he loves to perch on the railing at the building top
from his high seat surveying the world beneath him.

He's an old kite, positively past his prime
the wings worn out from having winged a good while
tired of soaring, weary of roaming, he comes to rest
at sunset time, while his tribe members are still at flight.

Does the evening sky's colour affect his mood too?
Does he regret age-diminished strength like I do?