The Flight

In the mundane,
I'm in the office.
Time for a break, the silent retreat.
When I don't drink nor do I eat.

I'm not hungry.

It's noon, twelve o'clock.
Or so it says — the time. For me,
it might as well be the twilight.
The sky is overclocked.

For months, a bird has been knocking
at the window. Behind the cover, opaque.
I can only ever see its shadow.

The elusive intruder.

But today — it is windy beyond belief.
I think, I think and then I sleep,
for a whole fifteen minutes.

Only it didn't feel like being asleep.
I floated. I went straight up
the atmosphere.

It wasn't only real, it was reality.

I met a bird? No. I met birds — the flock, migrating.
Black-feathered for most of their bodies.
And yellow, blue and red. Their features,
rendered as such in primary colors.

I joined in their flight, and they behaved as if I were one of them.

As I willed my mind,
I could zoom in and out of their picture.
I could focus on seeing each feather,
in the exuberance of their beauty,
like a lossless, infinite upscaler
of resolution and color.

I was flying above the city. Then from a feeling came a distraction.

It sprung so quickly I didn't think about it,
I was transported, and the scene changed
completely. A bedroom and a figure.

I felt eager, my heart danced,
temperature rose from my body
into my chest,
and then up towards my neck,
through my arms and over my skin,
like a current of hot air and liquid red.
I felt it all over as an irresistible distraction.

I woke up anxiously tachycardic.

I brought with me the spirit of the flight
and the memory of the ascent.
The experience.

But as I remembered how effortlessly
gravity pulled me from the air
and into the earth,
I felt inevitably
human.