WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO FLY?

I was on the crest of a hill, eye-level with the tops of hemlocks, raised my arms in the perfect dihedral, rounded my shoulders exactly right, curved my hands into the primaries of a rough-legged hawk. I could have done it, that afternoon, with the sun scattering the light into improbable blue. I felt a vibration, a trembling up my arms. I saw my fingers pinnate, felt the feathers growing, prickling through my skin. Perhaps I could have risen above the trees, disappeared into that stunning sky– and yet, some solid thing, some reservation of gravity, kept me on the ground.

Small children know: with homemade wings in place they leap from kitchen chairs, flutter above the rooftops, carry home the smiling sun, yellow moon, the sharp pointed stars.