Air
Andrew Weatherly
I kept waiting for the rug to fly.
I fed it aspirations dreams blue jay feathers to elevate its mind, set its
desires, target rising just an inch for starters. I tugged its tassels till I
shook it, cajoled it, demanded flight, but there it lay collecting cat hair and
ill-favored notions. Maybe I should take off my shoes indoors?
So I lowered my sights.
Maybe a towel could fly? On the clothesline it tried to take off like it was
on a leash tugging so hard and with such will. I egged it on; chanted
encouraging melodies; wrote it inspirational sonnets. Then on a sunny I
flung it into air like mama bird kicking baby out of nest. It flipped flapped
flopped: crashed broke its legs wings and crumpled. Maybe I was using
the wrong theory?
So I struck on the plan of a small swarm. Into washer went napkins and
ankies; out on line to go hang and make friends with wind (separately
from socks who idealize earth). Then I captured
a hundred bees in each square of cloth; I lassoed them together in harness,
nd set my sights on clouds or at least treetops, or maybe just a roofline.
But bees laughed at my humor blew their noses wiped their mouths
chuckled mockingly at my flighty imagination. Their queen called them
home for supper, and that was that.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll use a magnifying glass to light a flame under fire
ants to see if they’ll provide enough heat for liftoff in my balloon.
I could try yoking flying squirrels together and see if their graceful glide
gets more lift.
Perhaps the answer is growing so tall I don’t see my feet, and people tiny
like from airplanes, and I’ll be up in the air.
Andrew Weatherly
I kept waiting for the rug to fly.
I fed it aspirations dreams blue jay feathers to elevate its mind, set its
desires, target rising just an inch for starters. I tugged its tassels till I
shook it, cajoled it, demanded flight, but there it lay collecting cat hair and
ill-favored notions. Maybe I should take off my shoes indoors?
So I lowered my sights.
Maybe a towel could fly? On the clothesline it tried to take off like it was
on a leash tugging so hard and with such will. I egged it on; chanted
encouraging melodies; wrote it inspirational sonnets. Then on a sunny I
flung it into air like mama bird kicking baby out of nest. It flipped flapped
flopped: crashed broke its legs wings and crumpled. Maybe I was using
the wrong theory?
So I struck on the plan of a small swarm. Into washer went napkins and
ankies; out on line to go hang and make friends with wind (separately
from socks who idealize earth). Then I captured
a hundred bees in each square of cloth; I lassoed them together in harness,
nd set my sights on clouds or at least treetops, or maybe just a roofline.
But bees laughed at my humor blew their noses wiped their mouths
chuckled mockingly at my flighty imagination. Their queen called them
home for supper, and that was that.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll use a magnifying glass to light a flame under fire
ants to see if they’ll provide enough heat for liftoff in my balloon.
I could try yoking flying squirrels together and see if their graceful glide
gets more lift.
Perhaps the answer is growing so tall I don’t see my feet, and people tiny
like from airplanes, and I’ll be up in the air.
