Contrails

 

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

 

10/14/00



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