Livora Gracely

You were not made to stay still. Even the lightest things can chase the sky.

The race began without permission.

This was fortunate, because no one knew who could have given it.

Four plastic bags had been resting beside the road since breakfast: one pale blue, one soft green, one pink, and one almost white. They had spent the morning doing nothing remarkable.

Then the wind arrived.

The white one moved first.

It lifted two corners, gathered itself, and suddenly looked remarkably like a rabbit with urgent appointments.

The blue bag followed.

It bounced once, twice, then discovered that its handles made excellent ears.

The green one preferred running.

At least, everyone assumed it was running. Plastic bags have no knees, which makes judging athletic technique difficult.

The pink bag rejected the road entirely.

It opened both sides and became a bird.

Three dry leaves immediately joined the competition.

Nobody had invited them either.

By the bend, the rabbit was leading.

The green runner objected.

The blue one performed something between a leap and a cartwheel, which was impressive but contributed very little to forward progress.

Above them, the pink bird sailed calmly.

“That’s cheating,” said a boy standing beside the road.

His sister considered this.

“Only if flying wasn’t allowed.”

There were no rules.

This improved the race considerably.

More leaves came tumbling across the asphalt. Dry grass bowed as the four competitors passed. One particularly enthusiastic leaf overtook everyone, lost direction, and finished in a ditch.

The boy declared it disqualified.

His sister reminded him there were still no rules.

At the old milestone, the wind suddenly stopped.

Four plastic bags collapsed onto the road.

Rabbit.

Runner.

Blue whatever-it-had-become.

Bird.

All gone.

Just bags again.

The children stood quietly.

Then the smallest breeze slipped through the grass.

One handle twitched.

The boy leaned forward.

“Again?”

His sister smiled.

By the following morning, someone had drawn a tiny starting line beside the milestone.

No one admitted doing it.

The dry leaves were already waiting.

And whenever the wind crossed the road after that, people stopped trying to decide which bag was winning.

They simply made room for the race.

The finish line, apparently, was wherever the wind changed its mind.