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In the morning, I watch the sun rise over the plains as I ride the thermals, circling around and around as the rising heat wave lifts me. The zephyr winds itself through my hair, and rushes through my wings and over my body like a lover’s caress. I can hear the soft ‘whoosh’ that my wings make as I beat them down to gain altitude. I fly simply for the sheer joy of flying, of feeling the wind on my face, and watching the humans as tiny dots on the ground. Abandoning the thermal, I climb higher and higher, as high as I can. I finally reach the top of my climb, as high as I can possibly go, to where the air is thin and it burns to draw breath, and it is as cold as the dead of winter. I savor the split second of being motionless at the top, right before I tuck my wings and dive towards the ground. I almost live for the adrenaline rush in that dive, brought on by the rushing wind and the ground getting closer by every second. In the last few moments, just before I hit the building, I snap my wings out and sweep them backwards to land as light as a feather on the edge of the roof. Once landed, I sit on the edge of the roof to watch the sun finish cresting the horizon before slipping over the edge of the roof and back into my bed. |
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© Written in English 101, Fall 2005. All material copyrighted by Claire Taylor |
