As I sit every morning and enjoy the solitude of the wild I am continually conscious of things that fly. It is the most prominent action of living things that surround me. Flying seems to be a common attribute of living. Even humans have gotten into the act for even though I am sitting by a river the sound I most hear is not boats whizzing by but jets flying overhead. I have seen a dozen or more already this morning. Flying, although common, is none the less miraculous and made even more so by the unique and beautiful ways in which flight apparatus’ come. I found a dying dragonfly yesterday, aptly named for only the magical name of dragon could describe this exquisite creature, and its wings are the most beautifully intricate, unmatched by even the finest tracery in the greatest stained glass in the most holy cathedral. I imagine the long since extinct dragon gave humans the impetus to name this tiny beauty thus. So there you have it, a few thoughts on the abundance of life that is flying around an old man bound to his porch chair, flying in his mind.
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