flying

Sitting behind a tiny pane, I feel the monster of iron and steel ahead of me churning fuel into wind, the tugging of my scarf in the breeze. I hear the whistle of wires slicing the air, the roar of wind over my head. I feel the heat of the engine upon my legs, the sun upon my arms, my cheeks the morning chill. I smell the burnt oil, the varnished wood, the painted cloth, the leather on my skull. Leaning forward, grinning like the dreamer as I pull back on the stick and climb upward into the heavens, leaving behind the sad world of clay below, turning toward…

“Hey Dad, Mom says she’s out of quarters, and we have to leave now. We want to go get some ice cream. Can we PLEASE go now?”