Hope is the thing with feathers . . . — Emily Dickinson
Birds have hollow bones. That’s how they can fly.
Sometimes I wish I had hollow bones so I could fly. I would fly so far away no one would ever find me. I would fly to the highest mountain on the furthest continent. I would perch there and wait for just the right air current to come my way, and then I’d fly some more. I’d fly over oceans and farms fat with corn and wheat, and cows. I’d rise with the air and fall with my wings outstretched so wide you’d think they might snap . . . but they won’t. My wings are strong.
That night I stayed awake. I didn’t want to sleep. I knew if I did the morning would come too fast. So I kept myself awake, awake dreaming about flying over the ocean and watching the waves build and roll and crash on the shore. Awake dreaming that I could fly over the Great Redwood Forest. That I could fly above the green tree canopy where salamanders live on the branches of the world’s tallest trees.
I flap my wings but only a few times so I won’t get tired. Mostly I rest on the air currents like dandelion seeds. Mostly I fly with only the wind under my wings.