Flying   Aside from all the instruments, the green lights and the red lights, glowing indicators of pending adventures, perils foreseen and rendered routine, shrewd bargains with fate — still, it’s really just driving in the sky, magical mystical touring through four dimensions — time and space as a highway, the heart beyond its cage. And those poor earthbound souls down there below? Not our problem.   But in my dreams it wasn’t like this — no planes or wings or maps. No plans, no jobs — just floating, just the will to fly. And listen: no squawk from the radio, just the rush of the wind, the pull of time, and the push.                                                                  for Billy Straus     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont August 2018