The wingspan of a heron is five feet,

yet their body in flight lifts reality from its roots, begging us to become wind.

And I wrestle with it,
but I do as they ask,
giving myself to the edges,
blanketing my body in trust-
to soar along where the river meets the sky, where who I thought I was meets all that I am.

Remember the time I thought I was falling, yet it turns out I was opening?