I, Icarus

There was a time when I could fly. I swear it.
Perhaps, if I thing hard for a moment, I can even tell you
     the year.
My room was on the ground floor at the rear of the house.
My bed faced a window.
Night after night I lay on my bed and willed myself to fly.
It was hard work, I can tell you.
Sometimes I lay perfectly still for an hour before I felt my body
      rising from the bed.
I rose slowly, slowly until I floated three or four feet above the
      floor.
Then, with a kind of swimming motion, I propelled myself toward 
      the window.
Outside, I rose higher and higher, above the pasture fence, above 
     the clothesline, above the dark, haunted trees beyond the
     pasture.
And, all the time, I heard the music of flutes.
It seemed the wind made this music.
And sometimes there were voices singing.