Flight.

He stood at the precipice where Woodbine Falls emerged from the jagged granite of the Beartooth Mountains, the water dashing itself on the broken stone below. It drew forth the same feelings he had as a child, standing on the roof of the garage before he forgot he was not a bird, but just some stupid kid. But he’d learned from that broken-arm experience, and took a step back from the edge to ward against any similar fantasies as he stood there at the top of the world.

© Michael Raven

Posted in response to a prompt at Lady Jabberwocky’s site: “Write a story based on the word ‘bird’.”