Flying by Temma Schaechter

The only thing
I do with complete ease
and I know
that they say it’s
impractical,
it’s implausible,
but I know it when I feel it, when
the first pitch
rings out from
my nurturing fairy godmother,
the black-capped chickadee,
and I breathe
in and I close
my eyes, and I’m
up, up,
above the birds and
beyond the trees,
waving goodbye to the
clouds as I pass the

sky, and I
fly.

I fly, and I can’t

stop;
I am
told I need
to focus on
technique, but it’s a
boundless art,
and technicalities only
put gravity into motion —
to soar
I can’t be pulled down by
a mere breath here, and
a mis-jump there
so I neglect the
instructions
and I close
my eyes, and I
fly.

The lulling
breeze
on my neck,
the steady
beat of my
wings, and the

hum of the air and
my nurturing friend, the
black-capped chickadee,
begging,
asking the wind,
why?

The wind whimpers with wonder —

The girl

must
fly.