Evening Flight Part 3 of 3

I often gaze upwards and smell the breeze that teases me and invites
me to seek out its heady source. Might it have come from the heavens
that are littered with so many glowing lights. On some nights like this
night, the lights bloom in little buds like the field of flowers in
bloom. Only this was a field that faced down from above, its dark
black grass so dense you can hardly see it at all. All you can see are the
millions and millions of flowery lights scattered as far as your eyes can
see. If I can fly and fly without stopping will I ever reach the
mysterious lands on the other side of the sky? Perhaps if I still
possessed the strength of my youth I would take off right this very
moment, in one single, sudden burst of air. I imagine the others like
tiny specks below me, the Two Brothers, nothing but pebbles in
a large pond.

The families who live here have come to also know me as the Quiet
One. Gone are my ability to sing like the others. Our voices are like
our wings, our eyes and our beak. They alert the others of predator
or prey. They come alive during courtship. Or cry at the loss of a
nestling. I never had my own voice for as long as I could remember.
As a child my mother would sometimes forget me because I could not
cry loud enough to get her attention and my food... I could not cry
at all! I often fed on the scraps that fell from my brothers’ mouths.
My bitterness found me eager to learn our flight so that I could leave
the brood at the first available opportunity. I watched as the other
boys grew up and played games, singing their songs. Our tribe is our
music. And our music is especially beautiful when we court. The air
comes alive with such a symphony that send the other tribes into an
envious quiet. The best song always finds you the best mate. I have
heard my father sing once and I so longed to sing like him. But alas,
I was born without a voice. Hence I never found my mate. A tragic
irony for I would have had volumes of stories to tell. She would never
be bored in my company. I would be an excellent father who will
bring more than the usual choice of foods for my children. Alas, but
I have accepted my fate. I fly in silent, circling strides, teasing the
opposite rock brothers. They who have been facing each other for an
eternity with never a word between them except a deep howl on
stormy nights. Even they have a voice.

Now I have lived a life that has been enriched with the many things
I have seen and if you are really observant, you can notice the tiny
lashes from across my forehead and over my eyes.
I am not as young as I used to be, so I take the memories of my
special home with me. It comes alive wherever I am. Everywhere I stop
to rest and close my weary eyes, it is there. The wind. The stoney
perch. The sleeping sound of sea. The two brothers. The magic magnolia
smells. When my eyes are closed, I am once again back on my
evening flight circles. My dance of dusk. These days my failing mind
can hardly tell the difference when my eyes are closed. When one
closes his eyes to sleep, he allows the line between reality and fantasy
to be blurred. The blurring begins at first only slightly. Then in
seconds, you will find yourself plunging forward and your arms
welcome open. Your feathers spread from within your wings to invite
the receiving wind. Your legs curl upwards. And when your eyes are
open again, you are in fantasy’s flight. You are free.