I feel the impact of flying insects when my hands skim the breeze.
Shooting along downdrafts, the birds are on their way from above and will soon flap around my head.
Birds have wings, so aren't as gravity bound. I have long-boned arms with knobby elbows and leaden feet, riding a bamboo and hardwood plank on wheels aptly named Gravity Super-Gs.
As the birds bomb the bugs, snatching them from the air around my head, I bomb the curving asphalt path through the trees of Oregon's "Stub" Stewart state park.
Swooping, drifting, and diving, we dine on winged insects like distant relatives engorging themselves at a Country Buffet. Except: no line, no waiting -- food accessible from every direction.
Only the birds enjoy and thrive on this feast, while I try to maintain balance as I spit wing, leg, and thorax from between my teeth. Grit black, tastes like upcoming yak.
It's the beauty, it's the speed. Me and the birds in our kaleidoscope of constantly changing colors, shadows, and shapes.