A goose on the skyline. It touches the horizon and honks. I toy with the idea it felt a bump. It skimmed a ridge, or the saffron sunset burned its feathers while blue oxygen cooled its wings.
When out of sight, I muse it falls over the edge into the stars. It whirls into a black hole, feathers shaken loose by the force of the vortex, and arrives bare the other side.
As a city dweller, I played the ‘turn around people’ game, and it worked without fail. Just bore a hole with your gaze into someone’s back and they must spin on their heels and look for you. Their survival urge kicks in when you pretend they are your prey.
I stare at the sky and wait for something up there to notice me. A plane, perhaps, with packed seats. Someone in second-class will get the urge to glance out the window below and not know it was me who made them do it. Or, a woman in the first-class section will spill her champagne as my powers jolt her hands.
Three feathers drift to my feet. That’s it. I’ve done it. I attract the goose-coat like the jam-side of toast to kitchen slabs. The rest will follow, any minute now. I scour the fluffy clouds. The plumes in them will make them explode.
My husband yells.
“Are you coming in soon? The news is on TV. They say a plane collided with a large bird near here a moment ago.”
“I know,” I answer in my imaginary conversation. “I did it.”
“Not again!” He smirks. “Can’t you take a day off?”
I sigh. “I can’t help it. I’m a potent force.”