Carol Emshwiller - Gliders Though They Be

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Gliders Though They Be

by Carol Emshwiller

They live, as we do, by the shadows, by the warmth of stones on sunny days, by fissures in rocks. They

scramble, skulk, and skitter—as we do. They die, as we do, by the sky, by the trees. Live by black

brush, prickly poppies. Die by the drop and dive and skim of the masters from the air.

You'll be right in among them, doing everything their way. You'll be trying to like their kinds of food.

You'll be spitting out pin feathers. In spite of yourself you'll say, Oh, oh, oh. And you'll have to sing their

songs of self-satisfaction, but don't forget you're one of Us.

Find the ins and outs of their warrens. The windings and dead ends, the escape hatches. Know their

ditches, the views from their hills …

They call themselves The Creatures, as if we weren't. They call their section of the land The Place as if

our place wasn't as much a place as theirs. They say they live at the center of the world as though we

don't.

That's all right; let them think what they have to think.

Love your enemies. You'll have to. Hide your distaste. But you won't have to kiss them unless you want

to. Though sometimes our kind does fall in love with their kind, so soft and pink, so thin, so close at

hand, as they will be to you. Our kind always thinks such love is a mistake, but I say, all the better.

(You'll be thinking your new babies will take to the air along with theirs. Don't count on it.)

Though they keep calling it that, remember they can't fly. It's only gliding. And their wings... They aren't

really wings, just a few feathers in with their fur. But they're the big problem. Or, rather, the problem is us

… that we have none. In all other ways we're exactly like them. They crawl around just like we do. Rush

from hideout to hideout, all the time looking up to investigate the sky. They squeak out warnings just like

we do. We might as well be them, though they wouldn't have us.

Bring a sharp knife. Not to kill—of course not—but to … you know. Be sure to get them just before

they're fledged. After that, success will be unlikely. Every single one you cut will be a blow in our favor.

It all depends on them; everything depends on them; it always has. Though now everything depends on

you.

· · · · ·

We can't imagine what our nubs are for except to show we're kin with them. We never fledge. Maybe

we haven't tried hard enough—haven't spent enough time dropping out of trees or leaping after

grasshoppers. But who among our young ones hasn't broken a leg from trying something foolish that

those others can do without even thinking.

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