Taylor Graham Flight Such a tricky takeoff. A short runway in a cup of mountains. I imagine you suddenly airborne— a quick bank and turn away from the cliff face, and then you're climbing into free sky. How I envy your flight, the passage from element to element, tarmac'ed-earth into air, how you cut through wind, sleet to come back home. But I'm the one who keeps you in the air. One moment's unmindfulness on my part — if I failed for just an instant to imagine flight— in that instant, the waxy sheen would melt from metal wings, the manufactured beak would plunge to bury itself in earth. Oh, if I could stay awake long enough— let's say, forever — nothing bad would ever happen. And so, in my mind I watch how you separate from your own shadow till you're tiny as a moth I could catch in my hand. I hold you there, breathe on your wings until you begin the descent, grow larger and at last real, lurching down to become one with your shadow. I take your hand in mine and ask you about the flight.

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