A terrific rainstorm had blown through overnight, leaving small ponds in its wake.
But the next morning was what one of Crow’s distant cousins always referred to as a “beach” day: clear, bright, fresh, and blustery. The sort of day, she wrote once in a postcard, that makes you wish you were breathing salty air at the shore, while gliding above the waves, or lounging on the sand, under a giant umbrella snapping in the breeze.
Crow had never yet been to a beach, but she always remembered her cousin’s description on days like this.
She thought of it again today as she drifted in the blustery air above the trees, listening to the leaves rustling and sighing in wind that, surely, sounded like waves on the ocean.