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As my legs breach past the door of the little plane
that seems to be held together by duct tape, I hesitate.
My feet shoot right, as the wind dictates my control
and I’m left to watch it plummet.
It’s colder up here and I miss the gentle touch of earth.
The moss green tickle that makes me feel protected.
I can’t hear the songs of nature or see the art it produces,
like cardinals calling to each other and
fireflies glowing in the absence of light.
My tandem partner doesn’t let me think much further
before I am one with the sky.
As he remains calm, my body shakes
and all I can hear is the wind ringing past me.
I take a moment to wonder if my piercings
are causing the unfamiliar static that my ears pick up.
I almost forget to lean my body back into the safe position
that will ensure I touch land again.
Down below is a quilt with varying shades of natural tones.
Rough and smooth patches fight for dominance,
accompanied by the calm, collected lake that borders the ridges.
I see my cue to pull the parachute, but
my heartbeat can’t match the placid lake
while my hand searches for the release.
As panic ensues, I jolt back and the threat leaves me.
White knuckles tremble as I search for some semblance of composure.
Yet, all that was needed to do was to look.
Greedy eyes take in the flow of water
and trace the path where I swam
From Vermont to New York.
I notice the trees swaying, waving to me, inviting me back.
My partner changes his grip and everything stills.
I found myself appreciating the sound of silence.