I envy her, high above foamy spindrift clouds. Carried aloft on unseen salt-spun wings, she turns her face into the wind, and soars.
Storms brew. Sun follows stars. A million moments fly and time threatens her with unkindness. Weathers wood, aging her brightly-painted carved white pine to gray. And yet, she is timeless. Untouched by the stones of worry and regret that keep me bound to mortal earthly soil.
I envy her.
And she soars.
This week’s prompt was to use the third definition of the word fly. Picture sourced from the net.