I called them flying nights
when the air was warm and the wind
a lifting matrix of whirling leaves.
At the top of the hill I would spread
my arms, run a few steps, barely feeling
my feet skim the pavement until
in my mind I achieved loft, effortless
as the glide of a hawk on a thermal,
where there was no sound, but for the song
of the long moon, spreading her shadow
on my silent flight.