Nightly Dance
The whirring hush was now but a memory.
The shadow, silhouetted against the piney glissando of golden glassy
waves of air
was now stilled.
The lights were off, and the shimmering distance was beginning
to dim.
His silhouette moved slowly.
The only sound, the spiccato of his boots
secretly whispering through the cavernous space.
He moved about his machine, opening this and that,
pulling out a spanner sometimes which, catching the silvery light,
would wink sharply
or dropping it clumsily, would echo it's tremelo, quietly and unnoticed;
much like a pin dropping.
And as the pink drowned in crimson-purple,
darkening ever so slow,
he paused. Stooped to the wheel and slowly decended
to sit at the nose gear, fumbling at his bag, deep in thought.
And the lights in the distance began to twinkle through the brittle
air.
He stood, slowly, causiously, snatching a look at the smooth fuselage,
which still shone with the reflections of the still-lit sky.
He softly traced his hand over the airframes nose, it's smooth
and cold metal
like a young lover sofltly holding his companions hands,
or lightly brushing through her hair during a romantic dance.
As the sky blackened and night closed in, he took up his belongings
and strode out.
Turning, briefly, to take one last look.
To imagine flying high through the blazing sun.
He knew there would be other days.
but none quite like that one.
He turned, and silently, was gone.
The night remained the same.
Trent Hopkinson.