He was having another lucid dream of flying above his childhood home, following the road out of Merriwood Court toward the school bus stop. This time he was determined to turn south and follow the geese, join a skein and share the work, take his turn at the point of the vee, honk encouragement, belong to something and go somewhere. But the wind, rough, turbulent, pushed him down, and when he landed on two feet at the back of the line that was just then boarding the bus, he could feel the hard pavement jolt through his legs to his knees and hips. Last one on, like little Ping and the wise-eyed boat on the Yangtze River. Another little duckling, self-aware, sitting in the row with the annoying back-wheel hump.
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