Flight

Occasionally I have dreams that I can fly. They are better than money dreams, better than fame dreams, better than sex dreams. In them I don't have wings, but somehow my body can catch drafts of wind and I ride them up. I can never fly really well, but competently enough that I'm motivated to practice. I'm learning to steer, to control my altitude, to avoid obstacles by twisting my body. It's like swimming deep underwater, without the restrictions of poor visibility or the need to break the surface and refill my lungs. I feel the air rushing against my body and gravity pulling me toward the earth, but I defy it. Not out of arrogance or spite, but just for the joy of being able to do so. In cities I look down at cars and light on rooftops, I swoop toward pedestrians and pull up just above their heads. I test my control by flying tentatively through subway tunnels, alert and alive with terror. In the countryside I float above a river, following it. The air is cool there and the sun glints off the ripples as the sun sets. I keep on as stars appear and the air is still and wet. I doze a while on the roof of a night train. My own sleeper car. I am a secret kept from the passengers inside. I sit cross-legged watching the horizon redden and feel a tinge of loneliness, but it doesn't last. There's a herd of deer grazing on the dewy grass ahead and I prepare for a dive-bomb.