Silhouette of a Sparrow by Molly Beth Griffin Page A

Hannah just shrugged when I told her and went back to her knitting; my plan to calm her suspicions by waiting awhile to sneak out again seemed to have worked. And thank heavens for that. If she were to guess, if she were to tell, I’d never have another
adventure again. I’d be packed up and sent home, and this little flame of excitement that was suddenly lighting up my whole life would be snuffed out faster than a turn of the Ferris wheel.
    Shaking the worry off, I settled myself in the exact center of the bench, facing front. Then I brought my eyes up from the rocking boat and looked out over the glittering water. I caught my breath at the glorious sight. My hat blew off my head and its ribbon caught it around my neck. My hair danced in the wind, leaping from my head and twirling in the air. The breeze was much stronger here, away from the shore.
    There was nothing between me and this perfect panorama. I had always had flying dreams, and the carousel had come close to realizing them, but this—this was amazing. I squinted against the brightness of the reflected sun that bounced and played on the waves. And that smell, like the whole world was alive beneath the surface of this water, and calling to me to come back to the depths. I reached over the side and trailed my fingers in the cool water. Then I touched my wet fingertips to my forehead, where the skin was warm from the sun.
    A red-tailed hawk circled high in the air, soaring effortlessly. I watched it, and for once I felt like I understood the easy dip and glide of hollow bones in flight. A memory surged back on me of being a little girl jumping off the kitchen step stool and flapping my arms against the air, trying to teach myself to fly. Sometimes I could swear I hovered a moment in midair, but I’d always ended
up crashing to the ground. Daddy would laugh at me, his warm rumbling laugh, and say Fly, Gigi , fly! Then when I fell, he would dust off my knees and help me back up onto the stool. I was way too old for that kind of game now, but I never stopped wishing that someday I might feel that kind of lightness.
    I pulled out paper and did my best to snip the hawk’s gliding silhouette despite the motion of the boat. It was imperfect, but it would be enough to remind me of this day, when Isabella took me flying for the second time, without even meaning to.
    We didn’t speak during the row to Big Island. We were too busy feeling the sun on our skin and listening to the waves lap against the boat and watching the green blotch of land come nearer and nearer.
     
    “Here we are,” she said as we pulled alongside the island’s shore. She leapt over the side of the boat and splashed into the shallows, dragging the dinghy up toward the land. “You might want to take off your shoes.”
    I unlaced my shoes and pulled off my stockings, lining them up under the bench seat and laying my hat on top. The air felt cool against my bare feet and calves. I bunched my skirt up in one fist and reached the other hand out to Isabella. The water chilled my feet and felt slippery against my ankles; my toes wriggled into the rough sand. Minnows skittered away from the intrusion.
    Isabella squeezed my hand and then let it go so she could drag the little boat all the way up onto the sandy
beach. Then she turned back to me where I stood in six inches of water, trying to be still enough to coax the minnows back.
    “Come on,” she said, laughing at the image of me courting the tiny fish. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Downy Woodpecker
    ( Picoides pubescens)
    “You certainly know your way around,” I told Isabella as we set off past the strip of sand, through a little clearing, and into the woods. “How long have you lived in Excelsior?”
    “This is my second summer here. They were hiring performers last spring when the park first opened—I jumped at the chance to get out of St. Paul. Avery showed me around some, and I tromped around with the other new park workers.