Swoop
By PaulAsaran
Time is a funny thing. A nap seems to be over in seconds. Work is scientifically proven to take forever, no matter what that egghead with all her books has to say. Lunch time is an illusion, and reading time doubly so.
But this? This point where speed threatens to break control, where the water is just a second away from slamming into you as if you were a blueberry cupcake with rainbow-colored icing shot from a party cannon at a crystal wall?
Time stops.
Well, maybe not stops, but definitely puts on its just-got-out-of-bed-leave-me-alone-till-I-have-some-cider’ tortoise slippers.
I spread my wings and the air hits them with all its unrestrained power, for air is not as empty as unicorns and earth ponies often think. It has a force, a presence. Yes, even a personality. Any pegasus who gets caught in a storm or dares to venture into wild weather knows this. They say we’ve tamed the skies, but if Equestria really wanted to put its hoof down, we’d be nothing but breezies, our wings fragile and helpless.
That’s the reason I enjoy the sting of my muscles. They struggle against the wind, trying to hold it in, working to maintain a safe distance between the water and my face. The air punishes them, makes them ache, threatens to break them if I shift my pinions just a smidgeon in the wrong direction. A weaker pegasus would have felt bone snap by now, or been sent spiraling into the lake at breakneck speeds.
I am not one of them. Oh, I know, everyone thinks that’s bravado. It’s not recklessness that makes me different. It’s respect. I have the experience to know what Good Mare Nature can do to a pony. I test her sometimes, but she’s got a temper and has reminded me of it on occasion. The difference between going to the hospital and going to the mortician is knowing where she draws the line and never crossing it.
Good Mare Nature watched, and decided I wasn’t pressing her too hard this time; my flight evens out. The waters break away under the power of my flight, leaving a wake of liquid beneath my wake of color. How much time has elapsed? A second? Two? It feels like minutes.
A glance at the water below reveals a familiar friend. Is she staring at me? Through me? Past me? I can never tell. She is like a phantom, shifting where the straight edges should be and colors mismatches where they should be clear. A few features make themselves known to me though; a coat as blue as the sky, wings that look more like ethereal clouds, and a fiery mane that covers her in brilliant colors like a torch.
No face. No eyes. No mouth. Just a blue spirit surrounded by a splash of hues. Does she mean well, an angel watching out for this wild mare that dares take such big risks? Or perhaps she is an inquisitive sprite, gazing in curiosity at the Pegasus who comes so close. Perhaps it is not a ‘she’ at all, but a ‘he.’ Some alternative version of herself, flying over the same pool at the same time in a mirror world where everypony is the same here save for gender.
Would he be as awesome as her?
No. He’d be her. Not as awesome as he claims nor as confident as he looks. Maybe he’s staring at her, wondering the same thoughts, questioning whether this is a pony he could confide in. A pony that wouldn’t laugh if he confessed to being afraid of failure, of being alone, of going back to that big house in the sky and having nopony to welcome her home.
Him.
I’m not sure I like his company anymore. A twitch of the wings, just enough to catch a little more air and generate that extra lift needed. I rise, but I keep staring at him. It seems he has grown tired of me as well, for he sinks deeper into the lake as I ascend. Goodbye, my on-and-off friend. I have happier ponies to be with.
My head and eyes move forward to the cloudy world above. It glows in the firelight of a setting celestial body, the world aflame once again. I feel the heat somewhere in my chest and I smile in thanks. Good Mare Nature has me in her sights once more, but this time not as a wary warden of her domain. This time she cradles me in her loving embrace, her winds cool but her touch warm. She beckons to me,
Come, come, dance in my eternal playground!
And there it is, that fraction of awareness. Too soon, or too late? I can never be sure. Is it the descent that stops the flow, or does the rising merely speed it up? It is confusing and scary and beautiful all at once, a kind of thrill that tickles in my chest like a foal in a bubble bath, complete with baby alligator. It settles my nerves like a nap in an apple tree, enriches me with all the class of a socialite, and assures me with the gentlness of a caring hoof.
Good Mare Nature smiles upon me, for I treat her with respect and love. Her gifts are not taken by brash wingbeats and hammering hooves, but with precision, calmness, and appreciation. We have a pleasant arrangement, that good mare and I. I honor her power, and she lets me dance in her eternal fields in safety. I have tried to teach others the value of this agreement. Some acknowledge it. Others long to, but haven’t earned her permission. And then there are those who ignore it in a whirlwind of arrogance.
They learn their lessons the hard way.
Oh, there it goes. Like a snap of reality. Or is it more a twang? Either way, the eternal second has passed and the clouds are flying by in a blur.
Yes, time is a funny thing.