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Sabbath Morning

Early morning.
Very early. Very quiet.
When there is not much more than a trace of light in the East. A promise.
But from my front porch, I can already make out low, slate grey clouds, rushing rapidly overhead. The wind has ruffled them up, and now they charge.
Down here on the ground, it's calm. Not a breath of air. The American flag, honored, at the front of my house hangs limp. The insomniac slowly takes it all in.
The small world around him, calm.
His spirit. Wondering. Seeking. Wandering. Distant skies. Old haunts. Mountain tops.
Half-forgotten, once loved melodies.
Dimly sensing something.  Far, far greater.

A distant rustling. A strange noise. Something unseen, yet powerful, is approaching me through the trees. Straight at me. I can barely hear it at first. Then it gets louder. Leaves are aware. The flag flutters. Louder still. It comes purposefully towards me. What is it that I have done? Or not done, maybe. I strain to see.
The unseen Entity is disturbing the forest. Branches swaying. Coyotes howl. A bird screeches.
A crow, I think. Answered by a sister. Another.
It… is here now. Loud. The trees sway. I wait. No voice comes. No burning bush. No silent, glowing figure.
The unseen Entity pauses, and moves on. Through the trees. The sound slowly dies away. Peace returns. The coyotes are silent once more. Lurking.
A strange breath. That came, hovered, and left.
And took measure?
Behind my house, deer leave their cover to come and graze. At their head, a large buck. Two humming birds appear, fighting viciously & needlessly over the feeder. Although there is plenty, and a second feeder awaits, not ten yards away.       
I ponder the breath of wind, that rushed through, disturbing briefly, then heard no more.
I think of poor Macbeth.

Life is but a walking shadow,
a poor player
that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
and then is heard no more.
It is a tale, told by an idiot
Full of sound and fury
signifying nothing.

It is a warning, and one I often heed. Much has kept me stubbornly alive, despite some negative odds. Hitting the perfect vertical biplane roll, the abrupt hammerhead, and that inverted pass down the runway.
The landing on the small offshore helideck, barely big enough, under low and ominous clouds, and the rain lashed winds gusting to the limits.  
But good pilots know their limits too. They know too well the danger of the noisy stage. They know that lights and cameras, fuss and attention, warp the cool eye. Disturb the wise hand.

A wise pilot hears The Voice. The kind, but wise, firm voice.

That whispers in his mind:
“Not too low, my friend. Not too low. Not too hard in the snap, beware that inverted recovery. Don't push too hard! Wires… you see any wires? Ah, look at that radar dome. Will my tail rotor clear?”

I threw my expensive TV out, years ago. It disturbed my peace. The endless truly gormless advertisements, the brain washing, the transparently fake, plastic, contrived narratives. I gave it away to a bemused handyman, who thanked me by later stealing a bunch of my tools.
I got tired of watching the same smug career politicians. Strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage. Thirty years in Congress. Vast wealth accumulated, that in no way computed to their salaries. So full of their own noise & static. Shallow. Conceited.

I think of Time. Eons. Tens of thousands of years. The stage and the pomp, long since faded. The lights and the glare, silly. The noise and the fury, futile.

I know, my Sensenich propeller tips would go supersonic in a dive. Much noise. Much drama.
I know, my rotors beat loud and sharp, and the bad guys knew their luck had run out.
I know, my finger squeezed off SO gently, and, in the scope, I saw his head jerk back.
I know, I talked and strutted a lot. Upon the stage. Too much. I should have listened more.
I am guilty, as charged.

Early morning.
Very early. Very quiet.
When there is not much more than a trace of light in the East. A promise.
But from my front porch, I can already make out low, slate grey clouds, rushing rapidly overhead. The wind has ruffled them up, and now they charge.
Down here on the ground, it's calm. Not a breath of air. The American flag, honored, at the front of my house hangs limp. The insomniac slowly takes it all in.
The small world around him, calm.
His spirit. Wondering. Seeking. Wandering. Distant skies. Old haunts. Mountain tops.
Half forgotten, once loved melodies.

Dimly sensing something.  

Far, far greater.

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on November 15, 2019, 3:43 pm