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.