wing

The sun came out this evening, so I crossed the threshold of the front door and went for a wee clickity click down the hill and back again. It feels great to get out. The sun warming and lighting up my face like the smile of a loved one.
The ground is uneven outside. Steep inclines, broken slabs, cobblestones where the tarmac hasn't reached. My leg aches, my ankle protests. So I sit on a wall and look at the flowers in bloom. The wind dancing among the green leaves of the trees. Clouds drifting in blue. Friday revellers passing all dressed up for the promise ahead. A sign nailed to a fence catches my eye.
That is a wing you can see in the sign. Wing enough for my hope to find it. I feel its glide over the smooth white, above the mash of chipboard perplexed and splintered and stuck-in-the-mud. I can do this.
It gives me a lift and I rise and head back up the cracked hill to the flat. Not quite flying, but with the wind at my back and certainly finding a clicking rhythm. Then I am home again to my wee den of recovery.
To go out, to come home, to bring these thoughts back with me. The smell of sunshine and wind in my hair. In my living room I turn to the window and there - wingwide in its glide - is my jackdaw in the evening air right through the glass from where I sit down. I open my arms in recognition and thanks. I feel its flight fighting the wind. This slipstream of time I am moving against. I am thankful to have found this promise of wings this evening. They give me just the lift I needed.