In my dream the world lay stretched out close below me.
I floated on air, gliding over the treetops. My outstretched fingers seemed to bear the weight of me, and I realized suddenly that they were fingers no longer, but feathers. As I tested them my control failed, and I dropped toward the trees. I flapped my wings experimentally and rose higher, safely above the leaves.
I saw the forest below me with vision that had never been so sharp, so clear. Mice and squirrels caught glimpse of my shadow and scurried from their foraging to find safety, but I meant them no harm. I flexed my toes -- now retrices -- and turned toward the late-afternoon sun.
I know it sounds crazy, but all of this felt both brand new and perfectly normal -- as if I had always been a bird, and was never aware of it before.
Updrafts tickled the feathers on my belly as I flew over ridges. Smaller birds who strayed near my path veered off, startled by my presence. I would have smiled, if my beak would have allowed it; all of the birds were "smaller birds". I was the biggest thing on two wings and I knew it well.
At length I grew tired, and with an ease that came of instinct, came to rest in a beech tree, its leaves golden against my orange-brown feathers. From my perch I surveyed the forest floor, and saw nothing that could harm me. Short of a bobcat, nothing within twenty miles would dare try. Nothing on four legs, anyway. I felt safe and secure, and more alive than I ever have before.
So, that was my dream, mom. Now please don't take it personally, but I'll be skipping the turkey this year. Give me a little extra mashed potatoes and green beans, and let's call it good.