He wandered along the edge of the canyon. Dirt, like cinnamon and cayenne fell into the chasm, pushed by his feet. And he stared off at the vast blue sky with its puffy white clouds in all of their promise of futures and distant lands and the incredible beyond.

And he wondered, “Is it me? Can I be the one?”. After all, he was young and strong and tan and why not? They know that some, and every so often a bunch, can fly and catch the wind beneath their arms like wings. And why not him? In fact as a child, did not an eagle land beside him? And once, did not a feather fall from those same blue skies to land straight upon his head so that everyone knew that if some of all are bound to be, certainly it could undoubtedly be he? No?
Everyone knows it. Some will fly. No one is quite sure of the exact statistics anymore. Four out of five? One out of fifty? But all have known for centuries; engraved in their mythology it has been for as long as any have known anything. And so the next day with much fuss and ceremony, strapping one eagle feather to each upper arm for flavor, he, with a great running start did find himself, arms spread and undoubtedly off of the cliff and in the air.

And for a few brief moments that seemed like all of time he did in fact fly, but all in all what terror must have seized him as he began to fall downward and eventually and quietly out of site. His mother would mourn, no doubt. And next year more would follow in his path, all too exactly in his path because after all everyone knows that some of all will fly into that vast blue and puffy whiteness. Only his little sister wondered why no one could name the name of one they personally remembered doing so. Ever.

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