I flew out over the hill today.

The air was strong and warm and full of lift.
The whole valley was full of lift.
Everything just said "fly".

So I flew our over the hill.
Beyond lay another valley and another hill.

I touched my wingtip into the new valley
I touched my wingtip into sink.

I lost a hundred, then 200, then 500 feet.
Then I ran back across the hill to Dunlap valley.
Dunlap where you could let go the bar and drift
drift, going 200 ft/min w/o a turn.

And high and fat and happy, 
I cruised Dunlap up and down.
I turned lazy circles in the sky, then figure-8s
and wingovers and chandelles.

Just a boy in the shallow end, splashing and playing
while somewere, not far, lay deeper water.

I flew over the hill again.
I touched my wingtip into sink.
I looked out over the foreign valley,
searching for signs of thermals, signs of lift.

A hot asphalt road, a house, a tree,
the broad expanse of gleaming metal on a barn roof.
All triggers, just waiting for me before
they shoot grand columns of hot air into the sky.

A mile, two, then five across the valley I fly.
The triggers all laugh at me as I pass by in sink.
As I pass by and drop and drop.

At 500 ft I choose an LZ.
At 200 ft i start my approach.
At 200 ft I turn final and get a bounce.
At 100 ft I get a bounce.

I push out, I slow. I get a bounce.
25 then 50 up. Then 50 down. And up and down.
I turn flat circles on final, hoping to extend my flight.
A bounce, a pocket, a bounce, a pocket.

At 200 ft, I find a core and turn into it.
50 up and 50 up. Then 60 up and 70. 80, 90, 100.

I pop my wing and turn steeply into the lift.
20 degrees pull 2 Gs 
as I push and pop and shove my wing.

I sweat and strain and push and gain, 
100, 200, 500 ft/min.

The valley receeds as I ascend and gain cloudbase.
Cloudbase! The Valhalla of free flight!
I sit above the world and peer down on the mortals below.
Cloudbase! I am high and happy and safe.

I flew over the new hill today.
I left the new valley behind
and turned downwind to find another.

To glide past men who walk on the ground.
To slip over the houses and orchards and fields.
To pass blind into new valleys,
over the heads of sheep, over the boys on bicycles
who shout and cheer and chase as far as they can
staring, enchanted, at the magic
of flight as I wave and pass on.

What dreams do those boys dream? 
Boys who see men flying, not in boxes, but with wings?
Not tearing the sky apart with great roaring engines, 
but flying the thermals with the birds, as birds. 
What do those boys think?

50 miles and five vallyes more I meet a hill that
won't let me pass.
I cruise its face, looking for lift that doesn't come.
50, 100 ft over, I can see across it into the setting sun.
But I can not pass so low.

The eddies and swirls of
the lee-side roter will spin me 
and bat me like a cat's playtoy,
smashing me to the ground.

So I cruise and struggle and gain and lose
I gain and lose and lose and lose.
The creeping shadows of approaching night
turn off my triggers, shut down my lift.

I set up for final on a farmer's field.
Not a growing field! Not a field with cattle.
Just an empty pasture by his house.

His children spot me and come running to watch.

Tomorrow they will say a 
man fell out of the sky by their house.
But their friends won't believe them.
Not until they show them pictures.
Pictures of them themselves, 
swinging in my harness, under my wing.
Dreaming of when they too shall fly, half-man, half-bird.

A dark road and a long hitch await me
after they share their dinner.
After I regale them all with
stories of mountains I've flown,
birds I've shared thermals with,
Pilots I've known.

Afterwards, I admonish the children 
to always keep their wits about them.
"Avoid the lee-side rotor!"
"Never lauch into a dying thermal."
"Wash your wing behind its nose."
Good rules for flying.
Good rules for life.

The farmer shakes my hand as he drops me by the main road.
The kids yell and wave as they watch a pilot,
their pilot, turn and
fade into the darkness the night.