Delusional

Take these wings. I have no business in the sky. From now on I shall confine myself to smaller sections of an arc, go back to the bitter milk I was weaned on at the silk-parachute plant. None of this erratic dancing about on a trajectory that’s impossible to plot. That’s not how dragon- flies do it, much less wrens, airplanes or hummingbirds. My piloting mechanism must have a fatal flaw, & I lack the strength to climb much higher than the hills. I have no business flying, & aim to stop— as soon as I can figure out how to get back in that mummy sack, the chrysalis. Whatever made me dream up some place called Mexico?