“Wild horses,” Tyler Bigney

by MP

     When my mother ruffled my hair, mellifluously whispered that I was special, she might have been onto something. I could spot a sliver of a blue sky in a thunderstorm. I had my head so far up in the clouds, I could taste the sugary palatableness of a rain cloud, discern the difference between a cirrus, an alto—a stratus.
     I couldn’t even tell you what they looked like now. I keep my head down, always making sure my feet are planted firmly on the earth. One foot in front of the other. My ear pressed to the dirt, listening for the distant wallop of the hooves of wild horses. For the pulsating wings of the white crow.
     I wish now I had learned to play the saxophone. Wish I learned how to pull off a clever card trick. Or magic, to impress my seventh grade crush. I want to fix what is broken. To levitate, to be buoyant, to defy gravity. To be the apple, that instead of plummeting, floated up, up, up, and away.

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