Odd that I’d remember flying alone
under a summer ceiling of benign cumulus
as a silent time. There was always
the snarl of the old Lycoming
that made talk impossible, even if there’d been
someone else along.

Below, a stitched and measured Midwest world
tilted when I banked, fell away
in a climb. I was a kitten on a rug, pouncing
on the elements in my J3 Cub, wings and rudder
like flung-out thoughts of lift and motion.

Often I’d dip a wingtip through a cloud,
not a big one—too well trained for that—
but bigger than a wisp, just to see
what it looked like sliced in half.

And I had moments
in this silent towering sky
when I simply looked around,
suddenly abashed
as if I’d wandered into
a wealthy neighbor’s private realm.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Maximum of 400 words or 2000 characters.

Comments on may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.