An early summer hot harvest time. Machines out in the fields whirring up dust and bringing in the dry crops. Flat far fields of industrial dimensions roll on and on to meet the turbine line and the clear blue skies.
Flying machines fall to earth from out of the sun. Spiralling down at supersonic corkscrew speed. Spinning madness, they pull up before imminent impact and soar full throttle vertical, propellor planes, into the big blue, into the sun. They climb to the very limit of destruction, then they cut their motors and once again, they fall the earth.
Practicing for a swallow summer, the daredevil pilots, the aeronautical acrobats, the kamikaze clowns in their propellor planes, soar and swoop and flit and dart. They twist and turn and spin and roll, flying every which way, back to front, upside down and even inside out.
Far above the flat fields, in the shimmering heat beyond the turbines, they come from high enough to pierce the stratosphere to so close, they could buzz cut my hair .
Airplanes mean that summer is here. Airshow time and skies filled with birds of every feather. From sleek silver streaking modern jets, to weary old warbirds, chugging their heroic hulks across the sky. And they come in their thousands to look at flying machines, because somewhere, deep down, evolution tricked us out of the skies and set us down upon the earth. Wings became arms and when we couldn’t fly anymore, all we wanted to do was fly again.