Heavier-Than-Air Machines - Oct 25 2024

 

Heavier-Than-Air Machines

Oct 25 2024

When I was a child

   —   before I understood

the physics of lift

drag

angle of attack,

and how a curved surface

carves the air  —

it seemed self-evident

that impossible things happened.

That there really were

miracles

and acts of God.

A heavier-than-air machine

lifting off.

Birds of prey

circling lazily

on a rising column of air

even they can’t see.

But it took longer to learn

that believing only what you see

is to miss what exists

beyond your narrow range of vision,

that the senses

that bring in the world

often deceive

fail

fall short.

After all, air is invisible,

yet another breath is taken

and jumbo jets fly.

And when you lean against the wind,

see the skirl of leaves,

feel the tug of a kite,

you know it’s there;

in the wake of the tornado

believe even more.

And it took longer to learn

that far too often

things are not what they seem.

How neat as a pin may sound self-evident,

but when you peer through the lens

at the head of a pin

you see its hidden world,

teeming

with invisible creatures

battling for space.

And it took longer to learn

how so much hides in plain sight.

Because you mostly see

what you expect to see

and little else.

Even touch deceives.

Like a phantom limb

burning as it lived,

an itch

when there’s really nothing’s there.

Because it's all in your head;

your version of the world

reproduced

in that dark hermetic space.

And sound, of course,

the highs and lows

that pass you by

unaware.

So nothing miraculous

no acts of God.

And much more, that we are mere mortals

confined to a short band of spectrum,

peering out at the world

through the narrow slit

of visible light.

Who miss the high notes

that can break glass

and prick the ears of bats.

And who think we’re plumbing the depths

when the surface has barely been touched.

Because who would have ever imagined

that solid objects

were mostly empty space,

or that in ultraviolet

flowers aren’t at all how they appear

in visible light.

Now, older and jaded

planes are merely traffic

and nothing to wonder at.

And what could feel more natural

than riding on air

30,000 feet up

as if lounging in my easy chair.

Which is where I’m sitting now,

trying to write the world

into some sort of sense.

And wondering

what’s next to discover

just a little beyond

my boundaries of perception?