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“Touching the face of the wind, dark wings flex and ease. They read the wisps of clouds forming above them, the dark heaves of mountains below. Now the sudden bounce of a thermal, now the yank of a downdraft, The birds of my mind tilt and swing as I lie in the blue bus, until finally, their taut wings bank up against the wind and they streak out of my head, peeling off one by one, like canoes that have been pointing upstream, arcing back into the roll of the river.” — Anne Batterson
Touching the face of the wind, dark wings flex and ease. They read the wisps of clouds forming above them, the dark heaves of mountains below. Now the sudden bounce of a thermal, now the yank of a downdraft, The birds of my mind tilt and swing as I lie in the blue bus, until finally, their taut wings bank up against the wind and they streak out of my head, peeling off one by one, like canoes that have been pointing upstream, arcing back into the roll of the river.