Flight fools most of us. From the flutter
of a butterfly to the sweep of an eagle, the buzz of a beetle to the muffled
slap of a bat, they all possess a mystery, a miracle that leaves us yearning.
Flight or fight, the saying goes,
and we footed it, we brawling boys, we grappling girls, we emperors of mud.
Hands are our miracle, the grasping species, builders and fighters; but feather
and bone, gossamer and carapace, even the slack skin of a glider's wing - well, maybe next time.
Did we forget or have we never?
Science tells we formed from fish or began as birds but schools are blind to
the wisdom, the wonder of nature.
As the light swings down at sunset, as
dawn sings through the trees, the great song begins again and the birds, the
bees, the flying things, tell the story, calling to each other in the long
light, buzz and chirrup, squawk and cackle, the story that is as simple and
illusory as love, soft as a feather and light as breath, the story that haunts
our imaginations and daunts our dreams; that time that defies time, that space
that's more than place; that tingle in our sinews, that itch at the blades in
our back; that need, that wonder, that fate that cast us asunder; that lost,
that beautiful, that wondrous tale that is
