John Denver's hang-glider

Bobbing fluorescents... Hot pink, electric blue nylon Wing, waves, slight breeze... Sunset, albatross eyeing up the situation. Always looking out for a lazy moment to preen and then one leg. Spanning the remnants of music and water. I can vaguely hear a blowhole off in the distance. If I was not so hypothermic and disoriented. Treading for my life. I bet I could even imagine how its spray might feel; if my saturation currently was instead a desert, a dune, a Gila monster's paradise, and me oh my oh was not so awash with thirst in sun burnt laziness. Is that a dingy dinging? The bark of a sea lion? The fin of a Maeko shark? When I last hugged a tree? It was for dear life. I had been on peyote for days, and I was convinced that if I squeezed hard enough. It would pull me in for good. Current, riptide, undertow. All fine examples of secret movement. Moon, blood, women. Yes, I'm awake. More bright eyed and bushy tailed then that hare who shunned holes for pipes and slippers with drumsticks. Fast, but not proud. A warm milk spoiled. Cycles, poles, reproduction. In my past life I was a square boulder from Mu. Then some surly native went and carved me into a giant head with exaggerated ear lobes and lips. Doomed to fall face first. I did.