flight

I was walking up a hill, leaving somewhere I had been and going somewhere with purpose. I carried in my left hand an empty string bag, lined with fabric. The hill was long and steep before me, an arduous climb, so I thrust my left hand into the air, casting the bag and catching the wind which lifted me off my feet and into the air. The bag, like a sail, pulled me up above the traffic that I could see below to my right—trucks and cars in a long line winding up the long and steep road, curling and twisting around the bends of a cliff face. Below me to the left was the ocean and a sandy shore.
I suddenly became aware of the flimsiness of the bag, so small to carry a woman. With my doubt, I began to sink toward the ground. I realised that my flight was not only dependant on the wind—it was also a matter of faith. I determined to believe in flying and instantly I was again sailing onward and upward, parallel to the top of the cliff.
I began to worry about obstacles such as insects, thinking of the force with which they collide with the windscreens of cars. Again, my fears manifested and a fly flew through the air directly toward me. At the right moment, I swiped it with my right hand, knocking it from my path. I flew onward, my string bag, ballooning in front of me. A magpie flying through the sky came to investigate me. I was a little nervous that it would attack but instead it simply looked curiously at me, flying around me a few times, looking me in the eye, before flying away. I looked ahead and could see a v of ducks, their arrowed flight aimed surely at me. I had time to consider what to do, knowing that I couldn’t control the direction of my path, at least not quickly. When the navigating duck in the lead flew close enough, I placed my hand gently on its long brown neck as it passed and pushed it slightly to my right, guiding it around me. I watched as the ducks all passed safely, following their leader; the feeling of the soft feathers under my palm stayed with me.