Jet

O the path of a jet,
Catches my eye.
As straight, smokey lines,
Cross over the sky.

Printing in beauty,
And hanging in fluffs.
Exhaust fumes stretching,
That stirs it enough.

By riding the reflections,
Of the sun going down.
The engine in line,
Has the tracks of a clown.

Far off in the distance,
With sound going on.
My ears strain to follow,
And my vision is gone.

Like a great, mighty bird,
It leaves me behind.
In a state of imagining,
That God gave my mind.

E.P. 1908 - 1989