I sit down in the left seat.
The captain’s seat.
No lifeless right seat for me.
Instantly respected and full of authority.
Smelling the fragrance of new leather,
attentively staring out the glass panes,
like a small child on a rainy day.
The battery is switched on,
the instruments come alive.
On its knees, Prat & Whitney,
affectionately begging,
for a supply of gasoline.
At the end of the runway,
horizon stands with excellent posture.
I grasp the throttle,
which has been patiently waiting for attention.
Finally, it is time.
Levers shoved forward,
heart beating, blood pumping,
legs shaking, engine growling,
back sweating.
As I pull back on the yoke,
it's as euphoric as a post-run icy Coke.
Feeling like a gliding eagle,
I radio back,
“I’m now leaving the airspace.”
My destination is irrelevant.
If it were my choice,
I’d migrate to this world.