Flying

Reluctantly the long concrete runway
surrenders to speed and power.
The magic begins.
Lifting, lifting.  Nose up, flaps gathering
air beneath elegant wings,
engine screaming at full throttle,
the gleaming cylinder splits
the damp morning air.
Higher and higher.

Two adventurers in green flight suits and
black helmets decorated with lightening
bolts, strain against the acceleration,
an invisible force that finally lessens
when the sleek Skyhawk levels out
in a somber morning sky.

Clipped words are exchanged on the radio.  Altitude and
course acknowledged, the nose of the aircraft
rises again, this time not so severely, as men and
plane disappear into the dense grayness of low hanging
clouds.  The texture of this momentary world surrounds
them like a heavy blanket pressing against the
clear cockpit bubble, visibility impossible,
the last barrier to overcome.

With neither warning nor fanfare, the marvel
machine breaks through the cloud top and emerges
into a visual paradise.  A billowy cloud floor,
soft and fluffy, extends forever in all directions.
From the dull grayness of thick cloud, machine
and men are thrust, as if from lthe womb,
into a world of startling clarity.
No sunlight is so brilliant, no blue as
breathtaking as the crystal
sky that is forever,
unending.

Seen from the ground, the little silver dot
continues to climb, wispy cloud strands
hanging on the wings for a moment.
And then it is gone…disappeared into
the molton blue, the playground of stars
and curious minds.

Flying.