Three little boys

Three little boys in a basement, pound pound pound.  Splinted hands sawhorsing hand-made dreams of their champion’s wings. Playing games with grandfathered tools, tiny fingers tippy-tapping nail heads.  Making magical airships they will someday fly out to sea.  These adventurers three, grow up to be…

Three young men in a campsite, pound pound pound.  Splinting flying tales with vodka drinks.  Pouring laughter out of each other at night, drunk with childhood memories.  Stirring their hearts together again, under a twinkling canvas canopy of gentle camaraderie.  A captain, a doctor, and aviation genius share their lives with me, each July.  Once upon a time little boys, now seasoned pilots, building still bigger ships to fly out on their airy sea.  These pilots three, grow up to be…

Three older men in a museum, pound pound pound.  Sawhorsing gala stages with splinted pride.  Champion’s wings cleaning corporate chalets as worker bees, caring for aging eyes now sadly tossed aside.  Their callused fingers preparing parties for other’s, wondering why they are never invited to stay.  Gentle boyish builders now gentlemen, playing their pilot’s part, pound pound pounding away.  Volunteering selflessly.  These builder’s three, grow up to be…

Brothers in our flying family.

When power goes to your head, it may shut out your heart.