Airborne
Bloggingfrom A to Z
When I checked today I am number 1455 out of 2215 writers - feel free to check out as many as you can! My sister, Vicki Paulus, is number 1454.
When I checked today I am number 1455 out of 2215 writers - feel free to check out as many as you can! My sister, Vicki Paulus, is number 1454.
We
ran down the hill. No, that’s wrong. We
galloped down the hill, slipping and tumbling as though the sands of the
hillside were mud. End over end, down
the steep hill. Mouths wide open gulping
in as much of the gritty sand as air.
Blue
skies overhead erupt as the fly-boys from Kincheloe scream overhead breaking the sound barrier
with a deafening boom. The sound
reverberating off the hill sides. Hurriedly
we clap our hands to the sides of our heads, covering our ears.
Somewhere
nearby another flyer is heard, a large bird of prey screams at us. We have, once again, disrupted it’s
hunt. Several rabbits take advantage of
our distraction and scurry to cover.
It’s
late spring, nearly summer. School will
be out and we will have three glorious months.
Soon enough the hot sun will beat the sides of the sand-pit, turning the
moist, pliable, soft sands into baked hard crust. But for now, the tumbling is fantastic. The sands have just enough moisture to cling,
but not enough to make sludge.
From
the top, running as hard as we can. Arms
pumping, lips pursed in concentration, dodging the blackberry bushes on our
freshly made path, feet pushing off the ground….out, out, into the air. Airborne,
just like the fly-boys. For just a moment…that
one elongated, may last forever moment, we are airborne. We can fly.
Our
flying contest is marked, not by where your behind fell, or where you rolled
until you could finally stop, but where your feet dug into the sands. Your landing gear is what counts here, not
the fuselage, not the wings.
Brushing
the sand from our hair, off our clothes and somewhat off our faces. We give one another a knowing glance. It will take days to get the sand out of our
ears and nose and any other crevice it will have worked its way into. We laugh
and trudge back up the hill to do it all over again.
leigh
Great description that conjures up the simple joys of childhood.
ReplyDeleteThis wouldn't be the hill at Blue Lake would it? I can see you tumbling down it in my mind's eye.
ReplyDeleteYes ma'am. Across the lake is an old gravel pit...one portion is a great jumpin' sand hill.
ReplyDeleteahhh the idea of sand...I can think about only beach. But love the imagery here. Makes me want to break out and run!
ReplyDeleteWonderful fun! I remember rolling down grassy hills as a child. Sometimes I sure wish I could back!
ReplyDeleteI'm one of the team from the Poetry of the Netherworld blog. :-)
Lovely A post :)
ReplyDeleteGood luck with the rest of the challenge! x
Oooh, gorgeous post! I could almost feel the wind in my hair!
ReplyDeleteTHREE glorious months?? Those days are long over, but I'd love to gallop down a hill, anyway.
ReplyDeletehttp://joycelansky.blogspot.com