I stare down at the city
with the distinct impression
that I am flying

not in a plane
but of my own volition
I cannot fly

so high as the clouds
that kind of height
is well beyond me

something about flying
makes the city feel

like I am the only one
alive, gliding past rooftops
is it a dream?

no, not so much
more an imagining,
a creation

so, having created
my first essay into flight
I turn and walk down the hill

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