“If I had wings no one would ask me should I fly
The bird sings, no one asks why
I can see in myself wings as I feel them
If you see something else, keep your thoughts to yourself
I’ll fly free then” – song by Peter, Paul, and Mary

“Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.” – Langston Hughes

Wings – a symbol of freedom, of dreams soaring, of hope rising – have been assigned to so many types of animals: insects, birds, mammals (my last photo is a little bat asleep in a tree in Death Valley), and even some reptiles and fish. But each and every one of these wing-bearers return to a resting state at some point, fold their wings, and save their energy. I wonder at the moment when they know it’s time to soar. What propels them, emotionally? Fear? Purpose? Exhilaration?

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops – at all” – Emily Dickinson

I had a dream about flying recently. I have those dreams periodically. But I never have physical wings in those dreams. What I have is a secret knowledge that I can lift off the ground and glide around…and that others cannot. I’m never completely certain of it, but while it’s working, it feels miraculous and special and effortless. I wake from those dreams with a sense of wonder and joy.

Thanks to Beth of Wandering Dawgs for this week’s challenge.