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Old Pilots in Springtime
They assemble,
these old men
eyes searching the sky to know
what clouds would tell them.
The direction of the wind
is lined on their faces,
grooves like well-used runways.
A hand is rubbed across a face,
against the stubble of a beard.
They smell the fresh-cut grasses,
the moist and dew of renewal.
Soon they will lift off the earth,
again to touch the thickness
of the wind,
again to hear the winged whistle
sweep across their ears,
their juices roused and flowing
these old men,
who would float on the wind,
who would curve through the clouds,
their Aeolian sails brimming
for just a short while
until, like trees to be felled,
gravity brings them down,
branches to sag, leaves to die.
Donald Everett Axinn
From Against Gravity
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