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What a strange thing it is to fly. To skim the couds with the wings of a bird. To see the ground as if it were too far away to bring my feet to touch the hard earth. Every thing's different from the air. Fly higher! Sweap the sky with your feathered wings, float atop the clouds as if they were the softest of snow. The higher I fly the bluer the sky I see, when flying with the wings of an angel. The hills rise and fall as if they were the roaring waves of the sea, unmovible but a moving water itself. The grasslands are like paintings or the cut glass picture peiced together in the holy halls of a church. I see the storms bruning it looks to be a mamoth thunder mountain, where the lighting claps and the storms scream in the wind in dying pain. My eagle feathers soar, my wings glide. But when I wake I'll be on the ground wondering of the stars up high, I hope to fly someday...soon. There is really no better place to be then in the sky to be free! Review: | |||||
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