Elmo stumbled up toward the summit, forcing his legs to move against the gale force winds. He’d heard that there was a 60 percent chance of showers today, but he trudged on. As far as he looked in every direction, a thick quilt of clouds covered the hills. Surely there would be more of the same weather tomorrow. But there was still something he treasured in the rough landscape.
Finally he edged over the brink, the sea crashing 200 feet below against the cliff’s face. The mortal cliffs kneeled, worn to a shadow, brooding over the greenish tide. With no hesitation Elmo leapt into the void, lofted up by the billowing gusts toward home.
Drifting
Published May 8, 1996
