A poem on the joys of flying Sporty’s Legend Cub Sweepstakes airplane.
By: Charlie Masters (with apologies to John Gillispie Magee)
Oh! I have lifted off from the dew covered grass
And danced the skies under these yellow wings;
Cloud-ward I’ve climbed, but not so high as to lose the smell
Of new-mown hay, - and done tens of things
You will not know. I watch deer and cows contentedly graze
They are unaware of my spying
I watch farmers farming in their fields, commuters commuting through their days,
I watch them down there on the ground; I’m glad that I am flying…
Above the treetops, that’s where I fly,
I share the air with bird and bee.
From here I understand why the birds sing
As I am held aloft, magically, by Mr. Bernoulli.
Jet jockeys fly high above this Cub,
Moving faster than a bat out of Hell,
They compare their speed to that of sound,
I compare mine to the speed of smell.
Now, someone said, and I think it’s true,
That flying is the best,
Way there is to spend some time,
For that and a thousand other reasons, I feel blessed.
But I know a new owner awaits this craft
As I fly back to the runway’s sod,
I reluctantly land back upon the earth,
Reach down and touch the work of God.