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.