When did I lose the ability to fly? I used to soar, swoop and dive. In childhood dreams, I would be running and suddenly my steps would be longer and bounding and I would be lighter and then I'd be aloft. Awake, I would tie two corners of one of my mother's big silk scarves around my neck, hold the other two as high as my arms could reach, and hope if I ran fast enough the wind would catch in my sail and lift me up (it never did). As an adult, I thrilled when the opportunity came to learn to fly a single-engine plane. I still have the shirt I wore when I lost my "pin feathers." There is a ritual ceremony in which the tail of one's shirt is cut off after the first solo flight. A few more solo trips and then circumstances of life intervened and I flew no more. I no longer dream that I can fly, but I feel a kinship with the many birds that I watch every day, and perhaps a touch of envy. I am earthbound.
Camille has brought her mother from Montana for a prolonged visit and I am relieved of my stewardship of her animals. Breakfast for the alpacas went a bit smoother yesterday. They showed ever so slightly less aggression and so I will tender a halfhearted apology to the breed. In time, we might have established rapport. Or not.