September

September has come and gone. Across the way wildflowers bloom where planes once parked. There is a dead end on the fly-in family tree.

Above it a new limb grows. It is tedium; every perceived gap filled with appointments or projects. Numbered holes on the page overflow with minutia. Necessary evils protect the ground where pilots camped under wing. Blocks of time that once stood up pennant rope now stand for wellness. Someone must be there to set the cones.

Planes come and go, rotors flail grass, and people ask, "When is the fly-in?" The mind thinks, "Why is the fly-in."  The mouth says, "Maybe, someday."

Among it all, blue air has returned green to the runway and I must mow. The only spectators, deer, have learned it's lawless here. Ignoring the rumble, they continue a daylight raid of low hanging fruit. Unaware of the approaching threats, they carelessly chew.

Someday they too will see what I see. By then it will be too late. Please let it be after I am gone.