From cliff top I look down the throat of green to the fallen trees dark with yesterday's rain. A breath of pine cools my sun warmed face. I do not remember climbing, only the mist parting after snaking around snow drifts and evergreens. In front of me miles of deep fur shade splattered with the lime of newly opened aspen. Behind me lurks a mountain of confusion, smoke, a mouth of dust, a path weaving nowhere. Over the edge the fresh scent of melted snow and crisp blue cuts against a gray fringed passing of white. It is time to choose. I must fly to go on. I know in my heart I was born with wings.
in mist the fallen
trees dark with yesterday's rain
it's time to let go
crisp blue space etches
a gray fringed swirl of white
scent of snow melting
at the edge of green
it is clear I must jump off
I was born with wings
