Odd this sensation
of floating on air.
Arms raised up, they stroke
quickly down, then again,
pushing higher and higher,
past telephone wires to the
open space above the trees.

Dipping like a stale balloon,
bobbing slowly down
my hands make circles,
treading through air.
Like a cloud adrift I am
buoyed on currents, filled
with unspeakable joy.

I swoop and soar
like my bird companions,
chasing faint glimpses of
angels playing hide and seek.
They tag me, I’m it, unversed
in the art of vanishing
into thin air.

“Katie, where are you?”
A far away voice snakes
through the air, catches my toe
and tugs me back to earth.
My mother doesn’t believe
I can fly. She doesn’t
believe in angels either.