Wings

She lives in a stark house on flat prairie. No furniture. Her biplane is parked nearby. I don’t think she has a self-preservation gene. I went up with her. At night. I don’t fly, or I didn’t until she got up on the top wing where she has this stanchion thing. That left me to guide the plane. She’s a wingwalker.

“It’s not you,” I said later. “It’s me. I’m a wuss.”

“Yeah, I kind of saw that,” she said. Then she stripped and jumped into the big pile of brome hay. “Come on. It’s tame, but it’s a start.”

Photo Credit: Paul