The fall

During a paragliding flight I have gotten into a crash and fallen from the height of 30 feet. Luckily, my harness and helmet were good enough to keep my spine and head safe. My broken ribs have already knitted and my broken forearm and upper arm have been healed by a surgical treatment.
Visiting or calling me, my relatives, colleagues and friends ask me the same question: "Now, are you still going to fly any more? It is time to come to reason, isn’t it?" However, I have nothing to answer their simple questions. It seems we speak different languages.

It is May 22 today. The young green is brilliantly fresh after a short spring rain, and the sky is incredibly clean and blue. I see a glaringly white jet trace after a tiny luminous cross of a plane, and the swifts, which just have come after long winter, are playing in the sky, drawing infinite traces. I hear their piercing screams and a soft whisper of wind caressing young grasses and leaves.

And blue waves liking golden sand are taking away white quills colored with red.
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Pavel Nichkov

A critique is welcome