Breakfast honey, with yoghurt and fruit, sheep's cheese and tomatoes, and coffee; we never had coffee in the flying days, fresh air and ambrosia filled our lungs and bellies. Flying close to the sun, in straight lines, following the olive trees laid in lines and the church that Maria built; while women still cycle with the moon, men build towers and turrets and shoot fireworks into the sky; they don't see us you and I, wings waxed and feather dry, still flying, still flying, flying still... fear a' bhàta... trying to find the boatman, to carry us over tonight...
