“Laying in the grass, we’d watch as distant specks floated on the breeze, the machinations a distant roaring purr.  Each swirling light a bit of dust, ignited deep within the earth and brought to the surface by the broad fins of giant metal vents.

“Sometimes, there’d be visitors from far away, borne by the wind, by the power of man; manufactured trade currents in the sky. The shadows would race along the ground, faster than the myths of wild horses.  Our smaller abstractions of paper and wood would flutter in the wind, poor imitations of the flying beasts above, but soaring, in our minds, just as high.

“Once my dad took me down, to the mid levels of the machines.  He held me as I leaned over the railing, as the forces stirred and swept my breath away.  Floating in his hands, my weight was pulled away and memories of the ground flitted into the past.

“As the small group of friends parted ways, as we grew up and moved on, for some the dream of flight became an obsession…

“and for every dream, there is a price.”