Untitled Doodle
11" X 14"
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Our Muse
I am twisted slightly to look over my shoulder, eyes glued to the sluggishly waving wind sock behind me. Every exhale of moving air against my neck is mentally measured. My peripheral vision watches the cells of my paraglider breathing in the north wind's presently insignificant gasps.
A tiny bead of sweat cools the side of my temple. The rest is caught inside the mesh of my snug full face helmet. My fingers slide softly against my lines...
The north wind is coming. I know it. My imagination pictures my Wind Woman tumbling, laughing, teasing around far off flags and trees. Although she is carelessly delayed by distractions from the eastern mountains and then tardier still as she momentarily pauses to smile at leaves... she is coming and I am patient and impatient as the late summer sun roasts my shoulders through my long sleeved shirt.
All around me stand 30 or more others; gear on, harnesses clipped, their heads also steam cooking in colanders called helmets.
We wait in near silence.
Then... the hang glider waiting on the edge of launch, having leaned forward on his wires for minutes the length of hours, suddenly straightens and takes the base tubes (the frame) of his wing in his hands; he has seen the flag down the valley snap up and strong. He launches. The nose dips down and then curves up.
She is here.
There is a unvoiced cheer of unified relief as we pull up our wings, each of us now competing for our spot to take off. We stagger forward like zombies, chests to the ground, toes scrambling; we are laughing with our belated muse as she catches us off the earth's edge to toss us up and up.
A tiny bead of sweat cools the side of my temple. The rest is caught inside the mesh of my snug full face helmet. My fingers slide softly against my lines...
The north wind is coming. I know it. My imagination pictures my Wind Woman tumbling, laughing, teasing around far off flags and trees. Although she is carelessly delayed by distractions from the eastern mountains and then tardier still as she momentarily pauses to smile at leaves... she is coming and I am patient and impatient as the late summer sun roasts my shoulders through my long sleeved shirt.
All around me stand 30 or more others; gear on, harnesses clipped, their heads also steam cooking in colanders called helmets.
We wait in near silence.
Then... the hang glider waiting on the edge of launch, having leaned forward on his wires for minutes the length of hours, suddenly straightens and takes the base tubes (the frame) of his wing in his hands; he has seen the flag down the valley snap up and strong. He launches. The nose dips down and then curves up.
She is here.
There is a unvoiced cheer of unified relief as we pull up our wings, each of us now competing for our spot to take off. We stagger forward like zombies, chests to the ground, toes scrambling; we are laughing with our belated muse as she catches us off the earth's edge to toss us up and up.
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