FLIGHT

Crouch in the field, scanning the night sky.

"How long should it take?"

I whispered but he's ticked.

"Five minutes. Now, quiet!"

"Sorry, Newkirk."

Thump. My arm's sore.

"OK, OK."

Whap. Jeez, my ear. He furiously, silently gestures, "Shhh."

Sigh. Waiting is hard.

Nearby wheat fields smell earthy and sweet.

Remember a summer morning. Fargo Fairgrounds, 1930.

Barnstormers spinning, diving, looping the loop.

Me, clutching chicken wire fence, squinting into the sun.

Imagining.

"Come on, Andy, livestock's this way."

"Five minutes, Dad. Please?"

"Look at that," I mutter as the plane appears. "Smooth flight."

Newkirk nods. "It never gets old."