Leap of Faith

“I want to fly,” said the turtle to the bird.

“Fly!” laughed the bird, fluffing his perfect blue wings, “Turtles can’t fly. To fly you need skill, speed, and strength. And turtles are naught but slow.”

And flapping his powerful bright wings, he left.

“I want to fly,” said the turtle to the bat.

“Fly?” croaked the bat, for it was day, and he was tired, “A hopeless endeavor that is. One would need wings and light bones, of which a turtle has neither.”

And grabbing a branch between his two claws, he slept.

“I want to fly,” said the turtle to the owl.

“Fly,” mused the owl, with his large, unblinking eyes, “Utterly impossible. Not just physically unbelievable, but mentally unsafe. No turtle should think such a crazy thing.”

And blinking his big, round eyes just once, he dove.

“I want to fly,” said the turtle to the sky.

“Fly . . .” thought the sky, his clouds drifting slowly above, “Do tell me why. For turtles don’t fly. Unheard of, absurd. And yet, not impossible, not yet.”

And with a sigh that scattered the clouds, he listened.

“I want to fly,” said the turtle to the sky.

“I want to soar and dip, float high, dive low. My shell to brush the lands of the clouds and dance among the rays of the sun. I want to fly.”

And pulling his head deep inside his shell, he thought.

“I will fly,” thought the turtle to himself.

“Fly,” wondered the turtle, scrunching his green brow into furrows, “How to do such a thing? I’ll need a triangle of canvas, some pipes, and a board, and I’ll have a contraption of flight for sure.”

And pushing his homemade hang glider off the cliff, he flew.