Gyroscopes

25 01 2008

I was never one of those kids who raced around bomber-style on bikes, scattering birds and grasshoppers, or who spun madly in circles, human gyroscopes, until dizziness heaped them, laughing, onto the dirt. My brothers were– roaming in shapeless packs of boys, chucking rocks at the sky, erecting impossible sled jumps, lifting hood ornaments, trailing noise and destruction in their wake. I preferred the stillness of leaning into the rough wind on the edge of the cliff jutting into our back cove, or the quiet of reading in the beech tree’s high branches, undetected, unfettered, alone.

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