The winds are a blowin’ here, dust devils, baby, dust devils. Juniper branches smack against air, send a stupor-cloud of orange pollen attaching tentacle-pores into more nostrils than coke snorted through the entire 80’s. 

But this is another story of flight. Not the kind jetting us over ridges to flatlands or blasting us through dreams.  

I found him in a bar sucking down bottles of Bud. Skillful, pristine, wild-eyed. A potent mountain of a man. His legs carried their own legends, holding ground like landscapes. A beard that dared subterfuge, dismissed the septic-city-chit-chat shit, distorted egos. He was no stranger to an outhouse. 

I sat down across from him. We studied each other. I said, “Let’s do it.” He nodded, propped his elbow on the table. I did the same. We clasped hands. My arm was shrub brush, his a giant evergreen. My face puffed up, his remained unrestrained.  

He let me struggle a while, then swiftly took me down, let me go. I projectiled, soared through empty space. Just as my head was about to hit the bathroom door, someone opened it. I slid on to filthy linoleum. 

Damn! Don’t ever pass up free flight from a mountain man.

Meg Tuite
Baby & Other Stories
Paula Bomer