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Flying Maybe it's you and me in the street, and we're alone finally, the two of us, with of course, the concrete. It's so hard on us sometimes we hardly know what we should think. Again it's a city, a strange city, incomplete, until we have arrived, eyes opening. Holding hands, we lift our faces to each breeze that sweeping down to us from somewhere else, makes us think, This is the last thing we may feel. Maybe, the wind that comes from over there, that finds us here before we go over there, brings the sense of what it touches to our bodies, to our skins, where finding us deeper inside them, it shapes secret things. And now, amazingly, it seems to have carried off our balloon. ©Shawn Sturgeon |