Dirt collects under my scrunched toes, the sun warming my wings. Soft sprouts of spring’s new grass struggle to push up through the dirt. Why is there such a thrill when I’m still feet from the edge? Who cares? I run the remainder of solid ground and plunge myself off the cliff. I suddenly let out my wings, relishing their power and speed. My hair whips back from my face, and I feel utterly lightless. The ground swoops out from under me, retreating to clear water. I lightly skim the top, spraying my face, and a laugh bubbles up through me. I spread my arms and angle upwards, spinning just barely in control.
I run through the woods, kicking up the old fallen leaves and relishing the cool green carpet of grass that pads the soft ground. The sky’s wispy clouds race across the sea of blue, my crunching steps accompanied by their silent journey. How’s that poetry for you? A high whistling crashes the silence and something flies past my head as bullets crack against tree bark. I duck left, my blood singing with adrenaline, heart pounding against my rib cage. Now, officially running for my life, no pain or other limitations matter. My feet hitting every possible rock and tree root? Not important. My arms and legs being torn to shreds by every single thorn bush? Not a problem. Possibility I might get shot? Just freaking dandy.