Before the spring floods, the shoreline is an uneasy sanctuary.
A hundred small birds will float along the currents above the water, so closely packed that they rise and fall as a single being. The larger ones come in smaller numbers, seldom more than a dozen. They announce their presence far more loudly, manage their spaces more aggressively.
None of them remain for more than a day.
We called them flyaways when I was small.
They were going somewhere, but I saw only the smallest part of their journey.
I remembered them most in motion, heading with unerring certainty to somewhere far beyond my known horizons.
I envied them.
I wanted both the horizons and the certainty.
Mostly, I wanted to fly.
To rise up and vanish as small creatures watched in amazement.
The moment when they disappeared made me want.
I feel the same way sometimes when I read a line that sinks deep or an image that takes my breath.
I can see for a moment possibilities greater than any I could chase.
As I close my eyes, I dream of impossible horizons.
Sometimes small parts of ourselves can still find a way to fly
I like to try to make impossible horizons possible. Sometimes I succeed.
For impossible horizons made possible, you can also see my fantasy novel,The Guests of Honor. It is available here.