He stands on the very edge of the precipice, his bare feet feeling every contour of the rough stone beneath them, his toes out over the edge and curling down as if to grasp the ledge itself. A warm breeze blows at his back, threatening to push him over at the slightest gust — and yet he is not afraid. He closes his eyes and turns his face upward, toward the sun, feeling its warm rays pouring down on his skin. The feeling is one of pure bliss. He stretches his arms outward from his sides, reveling in each and every sensation, taking each one in, absorbing them, making them a part of himself.
He opens his eyes, lowers his arms. A deep breath brings the scent of lavender and jasmine to his nose, even though there are no such plants to be seen on this windswept expanse. He looks down, past his toes, past the edge of the rock, and sees the ground far below. He knows the sight should make him feel vertiginous, and yet somehow it does not. If anything it makes him feel giddy, and he smiles to himself, completely at home standing at the edge of destruction.
He tilts his head up, scanning out and away from the precipice upon which he stands, and sees nothing but open grasslands for miles. Except at the horizon, where he can see the slight curvature of the Earth. There he can just barely make out the deeper, heavier green of forest foliage. And beyond that — vague, indistinct, shrouded in a misty haze — something even larger looms. It does not feel ominous to him. Rather it feels like… destiny. Fate. Fortune. Purpose. Willed. As though it is meant for him — and for him alone.
A screech echoes through the air, and he turns his eyes toward a bird of prey as it soars past — a falcon — not distant but not close, either. It glides through the air effortlessly, wings outstretched, riding the wind, seeking out the updrafts that will push it further aloft. It is the ultimate display of magnificence, maximum dignity and glory paired with minimum effort. It is the master of these skies, and he knows that there is nothing else that can match the beauty of this majestic creature.
A rustle at his feet catches his attention. A single field mouse scrambles through the grass and shoots between his feet and out over the edge. It seems to search for just a moment for a path down the face of the cliff, panicked. Perhaps the site of the falcon has spooked the tiny creature. But rather than finding a path, the mouse tumbles through the air, falling toward its doom. The motion does not go unnoticed by the bird. Before the mouse can fall far, the falcon swoops in and snatches the poorly befated rodent in its talons, carrying it swiftly away.
He watches until both are out of sight, then turns his attention once again to the horizon. He knows he must move forward, toward the structure looming in the distance, beyond the grassland, beyond even — he suspects — the forests. There is no way down from here, though. He knows this because he has looked, scouted miles in both directions. The precipice seems to go on forever in either direction. And so he has been standing here, looking out into the vast open sky before him, hands in his pockets, toes curled around rock, mind deep in thought.
The choice seems clear to him now. The drama of the falcon and the mouse that has just played out before him has told him what he must do. He must fly, or he must fall. Either option is a risk. Both seem likely to result in his destruction. But one option demands faith. The other is driven by fear.
And so, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lifts one foot to step forward. He leans forward into his destiny.
He has chosen, and he chooses to fly.
