Poem | Wind’s Flight

There’s a type of silly flying
that can only happen in a dream.
Wind ripples the body
like the lavender field upon a low, gliding plane.
The other way to make this happen,
I’ve learned, is to tie myself to a kite.
The first time I did this
I narrowly missed the sharp end of a farm fence
before I was staring into
the face of a foaming cow.
Daisy opened her mouth wide —
next thing I knew I was surrounded by crows
with eyes that blinked like red stars.
If I squinted enough
the color would drip into a thin line
mimicking the sight of my hands after its first paper cut.
Now, Daisy looks up at me in what I believe to be
a cow’s best attempt at acknowledgement.
We still aren’t exactly friends
but I like to think that behind those mad eyes
lies a soul that respects a flyer.
She had told me to catch the crow rebellion today
which the murder had been plotting for a while.
I might be the last being from a bird’s eye view
to see Mr. Scarecrow before he explodes,
his remains a fallen bouquet
among an army of mourning wheat.
The Bystander Sun nods.
We agree it’s a sad but necessary death
as the lavender field keeps rippling
towards dream after dream, sea after sea.

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