I spied this evening gravity's bane, ground- Defying dusk's dirigible: an airship, soaring, Drifting in the dust-driven draft, mooring- Mounted, engines churning, yearning to bound
Into the sky! Then, down, ‘round, and ‘round, As a raptor circles groundling prey, spooring, The Kestrel met the mooring, engines roaring. Breath broken, I watched as her tether wound.
The ship's skin stretched, struts strained, Snapped! AND the fire that bloomed from within Eclipsed the setting sun. Downward sparks rained,
Fiery teardrops reflected in their salty kin. And yet, fantasies of flight remain; A tragic crash shan't quash the dreams of men.
— Stace Johnson, 2013