December 22, 2002
I thought I could fly on and on, wings spread wide, gliding with ease through blue skies. Then the storms came, one after another, rain beating my wings, making me tired, forcing me down. Why does it get so hard? Lightning flashes, thunder roars, frightening small, timid animals as they scurry for shelter to dry recesses and cubbyholes, safely out of sight. Why can’t I just hide? With forceful determination I continue, feathers matted or broken, falling into the viscous mud, stamped down, trampled on, and ground into the swirling heart of the mess. My broken wings may never mend.