Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • I've loved thinking about flight since childhood. If objects floated or soared or roared to space on towers of fire, I longed for them. I built models of plastic and resin, of balsa and T-pins. I stitched together parachutes from old bed sheets and, pulling them close, foolishly considered various options. None would have ended well. Later, I obtained a license to pilot small aircraft. It was no less thrilling and much safer. And even though other loves have entered my life and it's been a while since I've flown, I know that I'll go back to the sky. I'll go back because I have since learned that it wasn't the objects that I loved. No. I had been consumed by a vertiginous and wild desire that I would describe like this: the exact moment when the wheels shove off after a clattering and thudding run and the suddenly still and hushed sky is yours alone, or, higher, when the horizon arcs ever so thinly and the sky pulls in the cold and cobalt blue and the pilot - me - issues like a cork buoyed in a vast current-filled ocean, which is of course exactly what is happening - that moment is fresh and depends on no-thing at all. There I am known.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.