It’s sunset and we’re on the lanai watching geckos take the leap.

The Bohemian and I have slowed down enough to notice. This parade of little lizards, sticky-toeing their way from the rooftop to the edge. Because of lighting, their delicate three-inch bodies are only shadows through the clear, corrugated overhang stretching out above us.

We see the front two feet grip while a gecko head peers over the side, poised to make a four-foot jump to the puakenikeni tree below.

At first, we are uncertain.

“It looks like that gecko’s going to jump…”

“Nah…”

“Oh, yeah, I think so,” says the Bohemian.

Birds chirp. The sun slips lower. We watch the gecko, its head peeking over, moving slightly side to side. Then, just like that – airborne. One small, free-falling body drops through the air, landing on an open leaf in the tree below.

“No way!”

What ensues is a procession of geckos, one after another, inching up to the edge and then dropping. Some hardly hesitate, just leap. Others linger at length. One creative soul approaches the rim upside down, then launches with a twist and lands it.

For creatures known to have an adhesive grip, the Bohemian and I are privy to witness them in complete let-go. No feathers here, their mid-air hurls seem to go against everything we know about their nature.

We humans aren’t much different. We all teeter on the edge of something. Life gives opportunities to face fears. To test the waters of the unfamiliar. We decide how far to leap.

And who knows. We may think we’re all just gecko-toed, wall climbers. But really, maybe we can fly.