Fourth Day of Spring

I went out to the Oregon Desert and surprised a rainstorm

just finishing her spring ritual of dance and moisture.

Startled storm lifted soft skirts of white mist

and ran away from me southeast, across lava rock

jumbled above damp soil and growing green grasses and trees,

dropping moisture into jagged ravines as she ran.

I climbed a jumble of black lava rocks, stood high and watched the desert.

I turned to walk across the stones.

Encumbered by a tentative sense of balance

given to me by a drunk driver many years ago,

I lost my footing and fell toward unforgiving black rocks 

jumbled there together and waiting for me.

I stretched out my arms and flew, graceful as a gliding bird,

gained enough altitude that I soared over the rocks,

close enough to see the damp mosses and tiny spring plants growing on stone.

I swooped toward blue sky above me, turned my feet down

and landed standing on soft, damp volcanic soil.

Two meadow larks and a bluebird watched my brief flight,

startled that such a lumbering human invaded their sky.

They clapped their wings with delight and encouragement.

“Marvelous,” they sang. “Now do this.”

They moved their graceful wings in glorious flight,

circled each other just above where sky becomes earth

and circled me.

I smiled and loved their generous willingness to share their sky with me.

I said, “I think that brief moment of glory born of necessity

was it, for me. The memory of flight fills me with new life.”

They sang and flew toward the spring storm.

She had stopped just beyond the second ravine to watch,

to listen.