Hunted.

Pursued by the pack.

Trapped by gravity, at the mercy of wind currents.

I fall, I feel them closing in. I fly up again, each jump a little weaker than the last, until the inevitable hand touches my surface. But then - a second chance! The leader is knocked aside, his grip loosened, and the force of the jolt giving me new lease of life. I see water ahead, and fly over it with glee. Will I find refuge in a new land?

Or will I be returned at last? Summoned by that most powerful of incantations:

"Can we have our ball back?"

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(outa time, outa ideas, outa here!)

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