Cruising down 116.
Turn at the bees.
They’re always kind.
My heart beats fast.
At last, the rush,
can’t get enough.
The Man
beckons.
I come for words with wings,
the power to transport.
My own wee carpet ride.
Each time—magic.
We ride the wind until
It stills,
then down, around.
We come,
every one,
summoned by this
Guy.
The Maestro.
We never know what lies in store.
Power to amaze, engage,
to laugh, to cry, to soar.
It simply takes my breath
away.
Time stops and still it flies.
Too fast.
The edges blur.
I care. How much?
An iota,
to be sure.
It’s time to part,
until next week.
We come again
for
Flash.
© Tricia McWhorter 2009
