Look at them. Their fibrous wings of tissue-paper aclarity, gleeful acceptance of the wind’s whimsy and nature’s prankster ways; the fluttering of chaotic direction would sink us into vertiginous frenzy. But they coast on haphazard currents, kings of orange and gold webbed faith, black bodies bulbous but such reach into haven sky as if a God took all our misgivings and direction and sewed into into their tiger-stripe stretch our fear of the unknown. They dance after a lifetime of crawl. They take wing to arid climb and we stay grounded. Fly! Break the chains of our imprisonment and shatter the shoulds, silence the supposeds, have not the have-tos. Letting go isn’t death – it’s welcome! Like them, with the warmth of summer pulling them wherever it wants and their flight an askance series of rises and dives; are we no capable of weightlessness? No, we are not made for clouds or skimming blades of tall grass with our bellies. But we can dance, and our rhythms are not here but there, over someplace out of view and impossible to track with the eye, so stop trying to predict tomorrow and hug your heart’s thrumming reason for it’s the easiest faith to embrace. Almost like that breeze you feel stirring through your small hairs; inviting your instincts to tumble into trust.
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