Flying home from Chicago in September, I was on the right side of the plane and got to see the sunrise.



For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: flight.
Flying home from Chicago in September, I was on the right side of the plane and got to see the sunrise.



For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: flight.
Cormorant, I think.

About to take flight.

A good take off point.

It takes five years for bald eagles to fully mature. This one is close.

And a great blue heron in flight in the fog.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: flight.
Taken in September 2014.
I love Great Blue Herons. We have a lot. I love them best in trees, because they still look strange to me in trees. They will perch right on the top of our tall Pacific Northwest trees and look like peculiar Christmas tree toppers. Alien angels. Their bones are lighter than ours, so they can stand on a limb that would not hold me or you.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: relax.
The Introverted Thinker is eight. Her mother takes her out of school for a week to go to New York City.
They leave her sister and her father behind.
Her mother complains about the school paperwork. “Never let school get in the way of your children’s education,” she says. “That’s what my father says.”
The IT is not sure what all this means. But she is excited.
They go on an airplane. She gets to sit by the window. She can see the ground and it is squares like a quilt with hills. It is so beautiful! She is amazed, magic!
In New York City they go to the house of an old friend of her mother’s. The old friend is old and wears dresses to the ground and a lot of jewelry. The house is dark and there are many things in it. The IT is told that the things are antiques and she must not touch anything. She walks around carefully in the dark places, looking at all of the strange things while her mother talks to the old friend. They talk about the past and people that she does not know.
Her mother takes her to museums on some days. Some are art museums. The IT is already used to art museums because her mother is an artist. The museum is like an art gallery only much bigger and the ceilings are very high. A lot of the art is very big too.
One museum is different. Natural History, says her mother. There are dinosaur bones. The IT can’t touch them either but they are wonderful. Huge animals from the past that are not here any more! She loves it.
They fly home. First she has to thank the old friend with the house like a museum, only darker. Then they go to the plane. This time there are some clouds so the IT can’t see as much, but she still gets to see the quilt of the land.
She decides that she likes museums and she likes natural history. Especially dinosaurs.
I try out
for a solo
singing
my director
is pleased
I am growing
she says
I am beautiful
she says
I look like a different person
she knows
a little of what I have weathered
my patient
is 86
and her husband died
in December
she misses him so
as she comes into the room
one day
she says
you look as if you have wings
and are ready to take off
and I freeze
for a moment
in surprise
that she can see
my wings.
Written in 2009.
Set a torch to me
Why don’t you?
It’s not the tearing sound of fabric
A small rip
And now a tear
That I feel
It’s the torch
I’ve been here before
A job where the idealistic came
As moths to the flame
Self-immolation
Because they had ideals
I watched and burned and rose
It’s the torch
The flames that rise
As the witch is burned
Tilts back her head
In ecstasy and knowledge
Eager to learn what she can
From these burning brands
In the burning we learn
In pain we learn
If we can remain open
Ashes fall to the ground
Buckets of water
Wash any remains to grey mud
Gone, punished
Relief for the frightened
An example has been set
No but what stirs at night
Moon or none
What rises from the mud
The ashes
Takes form
Takes flight
Laughing
Set a torch to me
Why don’t you?
And see what is created
Over and over
I resist
I stand at the edge
I stare at the torrent
The cliff
The falls
The abyss
Over and over
I let go
I fall
Over the cliff
Down the falls
Into the abyss
Over and over
I am sure
I will drown
I will lose my way
I will not surface
Ecstasy is in the air
Between trapezes
I am elsewhere
I am other
No words
No thoughts
No body
No mind
The water is cold
As I expect
When I hit
I knew by the spray
Before I jumped
Submerged
Immersed
Subversive
Over and over
I am born
From the surf
I emerge
From the waves
I am delivered
Fear is my key
Grief is my key
In the places I do
not want to go
That’s where I must go
Over and over I resist
And then let go
BLIND WILDERNESS
in front of the garden gate - JezzieG
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