Cheeks flushed by bright sunlight
Pulsing in a turquoise sky,
And the constant caress
Of vanilla-scented wind.
Clouds of red-clay dust
Collect around my feet,
Lungs strain for oxygen
As I climb ever higher
Through the thinning atmosphere.
The only sound that I hear
Is the distant rumble of the Thunderbird,
Chasing me with dark wings beating,
Threatening to soak me with droplets
From his rain-laden back.
I stop and look in awe
At three hundred and sixty degrees
Of a world, untamable.
By Nicole L. Bates