White contrails pierce the blue.

In perfect symmetry, a striking view.


At least two engines propel the thing.

Spinning contrails from each wing.


Shocking the virgin, cool pure air,

Into a cloudlet so fine and rare.


That the distinction of it from the blue sky,

Is as sharp as a razor and pure white to the eye.


As the trail cuts slowly into view,

It seems as though it's flying way too slow.


Sometimes, I wonder where they are bound,

It doesn't matter; contrails never reach ground.


Imagine an early man, seeing one in the ancient sky.

He'd kneel down in wonder, thinking that Gods passed by.


Even now it's a wonder to think that we fly,

To the edge of the atmosphere and don't ponder why.


We are blessed by the Gods to have conquered the high.


Copyright 2000 © Ronald W. Hull




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