My toes grip the precipice. I am a beetle upon the tip of a sword. Perhaps if I stood a little taller I could touch the sky. The wind whips my jacket like a flag, or wings.
There’s hollowness, like eagle’s bones. My arms take wing, breathing sunlight, absorbing strength. The golden waves roll on below.
The gale rushes up. I plunge toward the desert, arms whipping space. The red cliff face beside me flies to the heavens.
Then the swishing of clothes or wings cuts the air. The sky runs to meet me. The mountains far below applaud me. The clouds dance with me. Even my heart is laughing. I feel my body battling the wind, but it holds no sway over me. I am the wind.