Raven

I sometimes think I can fly.  It started when I was 18, tender not yet tainted, living in sunny Cyprus, lying in a meadow in the middle of Nicosia.  I was looking at a bush with ethreal yellow flowers, and the way the land rose behind it, tall trees circled by the bees, the sunlight dappling, dancing, cutting through staining the ground gold, painting and sainting the grey of the mold.  I felt the urge to fly, and I felt the power surge in my veins and in my mind, and I felt tears well in my eyes and saw, in my mind's eye, my hair flutter as my feet lift clear of the meadowgrass...

I felt like that again, on my couch in California, buzzing with ideas, creativity and words, spilling out into the silken night.  The moonlight glows and paints the black silver, sliver, bitter, sinner, as I see my toes lift, tremulously, into the air...

I sit and wait for it, in Tehran, in the foothills.  I whimsically watch from the windowsill as joy suffuses me, claims and loses me, rich primal claret in my brain wetting my eyes and buzzing in my ears, routing my fears as I lift through the window, my feet dragging over the sill, slowly...