I stand on the edge of a cliff. I believe with all of my being I can fly, (because it takes belief and not wings). I stand on my tiptoes and stretch. I raise my arms to the sky, draw in breath and ready to soar: one two three— I am not. I am not rising in the air. I try a different approach. I bend to the ground. Focus the muscles of my back and thighs, tighten my toes. I tighten my whole body to my body: a coil ready to spring. Up, and down again. The sky opens. Three crows form a triangle in a deep blue patch. Third attempt: I climb onto a rock. The rock is not flat and I teeter to balance. I desire to fly so desperately; to free myself from the burden of ground. The sorrow of my flightlessness turns to storm. Dark clouds gather in my torso. My arms crackle with lightning. The sky is smoldering black. Rock upon rock of disbelief weights me. I will never fly. I will never be apart from dead ground. Flags of smoke and flame; the brush and fallen trees ablaze— Frantic fire in my path = no escape. A crow, impossibly large, swoons above me then drops. On its magnificent black back, it takes me up, up and away.
Acadiana Wordlab product 2-1-14
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