In recurring dreams she flew in the spirit of being of the air,
a predatory peregrine, soaring under billowy walls of
white in a cornflower blue sky. Vowing to fly better
than Icarus, hang gliding became her passion.

Blissfully giddy, she understood why birds sing;
her heart had wings, flying for hours
in the boundarylessness of space, gliding in the
lucid air for hundreds of miles listening
to the whispered sonatas of the wind.

At the mercy of thermals and surging wind currents,
she steered clear of the dreaded crystalline
pellets of freezing hail, deadly diamond
sparks of light that can propel
one into a frozen fallen angel.

Always alert for cumulus clouds, dust devils,
and haze domes, she regained
control in every yaw and pitch, gazing down at
what looked like Lilliput;
landscaped tiny trees, streams and rows of
miniature Monopoly houses.

When Northeast gale force winds blew her to
and fro, her radiant smile revealed
how intensely alive she felt. No partying with
a pop and spurt of an iced magnum
of Piper-Heidsiek could make her feel
any more euphoric.

But she failed to notice a fierce whirling
gust, plummeting her down,
plunging headfirst as swiftly as a falling
meteorite, vanishing in a flash
into a stolid brain-crushing boulder, releasing
her wingfeathered soul.

Milton P. Ehrlich 199 Christie St. Leonia, N.J. 07605