Flight plan

The old country was a country of hills. She knew them well, had walked and run them all her life, dashing along the paths under the trees. Away from the noise and discord of home, her stride grew bold. She always liked to be alone. Though she would be escorted by a flutter above – a beat of bright wing – or a chirrup, and then an answer, faintly, ahead – she paid little attention to the birds. She was as restless as they were.

The new country is a country of roads. Painted lines blur beneath her and she can hear the thunder of passing vehicles over the music in her ears. Places pass by while she sits still, transported from sleep to work and back again. She has no time to miss the hills or the forest or its birds or their calls. Alone at night, her forehead pressed to the calm cool of a single-glazed window pane, she only misses the certainty. She remembers having that once, such certainty, about what she was looking for.