"The wind's a comin'!" I yelled to the barnyard as the gate I was closing pulled me forward.
It all happened so fast. Ernest flew like a bird, eyes closed, up, up and away and I went right with him. The barn came with me and we floated above the farm, only for seconds, but enough to give me a fresh perspective on the day. All the clutter of buckets, rakes and rolled up fencing on the ground left behind became abstract patterns–goats were spots of color, like paint I usually move around on paper.
I once told someone long ago that I could fly like this. I was young, maybe five. She didn't scoff, but didn't embrace the truth in it. I never told anyone again. The barnyard didn't need to be told though. They know the truth of flying because they fly with me on occasion.
