Born To Fly

It is something I've never feared, I was born to fly. Born to see cloud shadows on the ground and the sugar sprinkles of snow along a ridge, leading to the frosting clad Shasta. Born to see the meandering snow melt rivers descending into checkerboard farm lands, and the straight course of the plane's shadow paralleling tiny highways towards home. Born to do this forever, if I could, in and out of cotton clouds, towards the tops of distant thunderheads along the Sierras, plunging down to sudden showers on small town's streets. Like my Greek ancestor I would fly high enough to bronze my skin and dive, into Pacific waters with a blacksmith's sizzle! I was born to fly, and if I could, I would hijack this plane with all of it's cringing travelers. I would take them on such a ride, that they could never go back to a normal life again. We would have arguments over whose turn it was to fly the plane, this time, and resolve them with endless games paper, stone and scissors.