top gun

He walks the tarmac to the jet, stops, does what needs be done, inspects what needs inspecting, climbs up, over, in. This strap, that one. Helmet on; canopy down. World suddenly shut out. Cocooned, he is, in quiet, for a moment. Then the rumble, the sprint, the climb. And, now, really liberated. Liberation, really. A different kind of quiet. For a bit, at least. Then, eventually, down again. Unstrapped. Out. Walking back. So easy, for that bit, to leave all behind. But he was younger. Not so much to leave behind, alone, askew, undone, unmet, unloved, forgotten. For most lay ahead. In his dreams, now, or thoughts, at least, he does, at times, remember how it felt to fly and to flee.