Hello Reader,
At the end of the ridge is a bird of prey. A giant graceful predator. It leaves my mouth dry with awe as it dives, hovers and elegantly cores a thermal over my head. I let my hands sit limply in the handles and do not bother to attempt to take any tragically inadequate photos. It isn't worth the precious seconds needed to glance away.
At the end of the ridge is a bird of prey. A giant graceful predator. It leaves my mouth dry with awe as it dives, hovers and elegantly cores a thermal over my head. I let my hands sit limply in the handles and do not bother to attempt to take any tragically inadequate photos. It isn't worth the precious seconds needed to glance away.
Now the sun begins to set and as it does, the mountains respond by turning to gold. There are no words to describe flying in autumn. Every year I am taken off guard and left fumbling for words. I roll them around like marbles in my mouth, feebly trying to show what I see.
Temperatures cool rapidly with the sun's retreat. My open grin has let in the chilly wind and left me with chattering teeth. Sunset really is nearly here and in preparation, I take a lazy glide out to the front but I turn back, like I always do, to look at these silly people dangling about blue skies and laugh at all of us.
What a funny thing it is to be a human.
