What is this song that an airplane sings
to my heart upon the wind?
What is this drawing upon my soul
by this siren made of tin?
From whence this magic
which makes me see
airfoils, wing shapes, and engine nacelles
when ere my mind is free?
And what makes me stop and stare
with every skyward pass
until it is gone? And every time,
be saddened, it did not last.
Perhaps it is the shape,
sculpted by the wind.
Function and beauty sweetly expressed
in a rare and perfect blend.
Or maybe it's the larkish stripes,
the promise of movements yet unmade,
so that even while it merely stands,
still, it seems to fly away.
Or is the magic from flight itself,
when the airplane mocks earth's grasp
but then returns to kiss her softly
and rest but lightly on her grass.
No - I think an airplane's magic
must surely flow from rhythms deep
which bid my spirit, "Go aloft!
and know sweet freedom's highest peak."
P. Davis
