Magic

What is magic? Is it real? Is magic the whirlwinds of leaves that appear in the fall? Is magic the birth of a baby? Or is magic, really, a scientific feat? Is our world really just a scientific puzzle, waiting to be picked apart and pinned down and labeled? Are we really just, in the end, an experiment? A test, one of many proving something? Or is the world truly magical, somewhere we can be totally oblivious to the world outside our little planet, and yet be totally safe? Can science explain to me why my horse trusts me implicitly, though I have barely equaled what he has given me? Is it not magical when two become one and soar over a fence higher then most men stand? That gut feeling that tells you how and when you should do what? And it's always right. Is it not also magical when a dog knows exactly where to find his injured master? Is there no hope for the human race? Hope is defied by science. Science, by it's very nature, claims hope cannot exist. But we all hope for something. For a better tomorrow, for a wound to heal, for a friendship to be rekindled or forged. Our hopes, our dreams, are all that lives on past us into others. Because other people dream as we do, and other people hope as we do. So are we creatures of magic, born in a miracle, or are we creatures of science, born on a sterile steel table, predicted and proven?