“Higher, Orville, Higher!”

wrightbros

The aluminum cooled engine

sputtered to life and amid the

twangs of warping wings and

pings of sweating muslin

the airplane took off into the sky.

Below, the cow pasture with it’s

animal reek and tufts of overgrown

grass longing for the same said cows,

shrank into a bland smudge from

350 feet above.

In the twin-seater biplane Orville Wright

flies with his father age 82,

and ancient by all standards, swoops

into the sky to feed his papa’s dreams.

That wind on his face, cold yes, but

exhilarating! How he longed for his

boys to achieve their dreams

to walk away from the bicycles

and soar aloft on wings.

 

1903 seemed so far away.

In upon the dunes and sun of

North Carolina flew the first of these

contraptions, like a buzzard

gliding towards carrion it went

up and came down on the breeze.

Now 1910 has rolled along and

the boys were vindicated,

the skies the limit.

“Higher, Orville, higher!” Milton

calls out, his voice hoarse

over the rush of spinning propellers.

The plane gains altitude and Orville

smiles wryly and wonders at just how

high we may go in the future.

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