I’m sitting
on our balcony,
high up in the afternoon,
when a lone
black
bird
comes flapping
into view
at my eye level.
His wings,
powerfully down-stroking,
up-stroking
in the air,
I feel in my arms,
as muscle-memory
of swimming,
or rowing,
or tug-a-war
or leading cheers.
But then
my flight instructor
goes streamlined,
wings stilled,
beak pointed,
a line,
a vector,
a child’s paper plane
made of black paper.
He shows me
how he rides
the air now,
not pushing,
not pulling,
just aligning…
so he goes where
he wants to go
but letting
the air take him.
Ann L. Keiffer
November, 2018
