Yesterday was one of the loveliest days I’ve ever experienced, a democratic day that assured all the senses of their inherent equality: the smell of earth and leaves and distant smoke; the sound of songbirds, clear and sweet, and the burbling counterpoint of basking hens; the feel of drying leaves and the rough texture of newly naked bark; the taste of apples, cold and autumn-sweet; the sight of dark wings dipping and gliding against glowing golden hills.
It was a lovely day to sit and be, but that wasn’t enough for my son: He wanted to fly.
He started by ascending the woodpile, but static altitude didn’t satisfy.
He quickly clambered down and went to the hay bales piled against the greenhouse.
He climbed, he paused, he jumped, he flew.
Fortunately, he landed.