On a lake by Big Su,
Lives a gentleman who
Moved from a high-rise in Texas.
Now this is a choice that many would rue,
Indeed, they’d consider it reckless.
But he loves the setting – the greens and the blues –
The weather that always directs us
For flying or staying
or working or playing
or planting or haying
And other things, too.
In summer, he flies
In his Piper through skies
That are bounded by mountains so vast
That they dwarf meager hills
Where he first learned the skills
Of a pilot, in Texas, long past.
To pre-flight his plane
On a day without rain,
He walks to the dock ‘cross the grass.
He pumps out the floats
and then loads up the totes
After checking his oil and gas.
When packed up and ready,
The wind holding steady
The dog and I come to say bye.
I loosen the tow ropes and hold the plane fast
While Bryan assesses the sky.
With a shout of “all clear”
His voice full of cheer,
He is happy to lift off and fly.
After checking conditions,
He presses ignition
To taxi toward Willow on-high.
At first, he goes slow so the oil will heat
He toggles the pedals and shifts in his seat.
He watches the oil temp rise as it should,
Considering options of wind shear that could
Derail well laid plans while he lays out Plan B.
He reaches the end of the lake; turns to lea.
Then raises his rudders and looks to the trees.
He assesses humidity, temperature, thrust.
He determines that take off is ready and just.
His feet to the pedals, his hands on the yoke
He pulls on the throttle with light little strokes.
He taxis so smoothly that when he lifts off
A viewer can’t tell when he first gets aloft.
He reaches to pull up the lever for flaps
Adjusting the yoke to avoid his kneecaps
He rises up steeply,
Which pulls on his straps
As he turns to the east, toward the goal on his maps.
He scans the horizon for all other fliers
While watching the landscape for wind, fog, and fires
Admiring mountains and rivers and woods.
Instruments fine, avionics look good.
At Trail Ridge and Yentna and Deshka, he calls
His location to pilots in planes big and small.
He vectors towards Willow - the lake, not the town.
It is 22 minutes until he’ll touch down.
He lands on the lake, takes a turn to the right.
He taxis toward Stanger’s, soon greeted by Phil
And all of his wonderful family, but still…
Where is sweet Kyra – ah, there by the grill
Awaiting a morsel, a tidbit, a spill.
“Join us for
dinner!” They call in delight.
We have plenty of food here, would you like a bite?”
“I’d love to come join you,”
He says, to the cue.
“If you have the meat there, then I’ll bring the brew.”
Bryan walks toward them with beer, not in cans,
But a growler of lager made by his two hands.
Joey finds glasses while Chrissy brings slaw.
Phil flips the meat, less a piece for a paw.
Libations pour quickly around the small table,
In friendship so warm, and enduring, and stable.
The laughter is lively; the stories are varied.
Through soft, evening hours the picnickers tarry.
In summer, no sunset impedes any flow,
The revelers linger, the sun still aglow
Honeybees sparkle and ducks grace the lake
While they finish their lager, and coleslaw, and steak.
“My, my, what a meal” observes Bryan, with smiles.
“I haven’t enjoyed such a feast in a while.”
“Don’t tell that to Laura; she’d chide me for sure.
She’d make me start cooking , I know; I adjure.
Her cooking is great; her cookies are bliss.
No critic am I – I just want to say this:
You’ve created a haven, and I’d be remiss
To neglect to say thank you for dinner and your,
Kindness and friendship. I’ll soon reminisce.
In a week, I’ll return to Trail Lake for the winter.
I’ve finished wood splitting – no gash, cut, or splinter.
The logs are all stacked.
The lager is racked.
What supplies we may lack
We’ll discover and tinker.
I don’t mind seclusion ‘til May, I admit.
With, Laura, companionship’s still a good fit.
The quiet, the beauty, the solitude – nice.
We are surrounded by forest, and meadow, and ice.
We’re both well prepared with our cold weather kit.
We read and we play, and we cut down dead trees.
We turn from the wind in below zero breeze.
We bathe in our wood fired hot tub outdoors
Until the temp drops down to those we abhor.
But I’ll think of our joking and chatting today.
I’ll think of your jests and the things that you say.
I’ll reflect on your talents and all our horseplay.
I value your friendship and wish you all well
As we separate through the long winter ahead.
I hope you do well both at home and away.
They hug and shake hands and depart to their beds.
In houses or campers or hangers, all said.
B walks to his camper, climbs into the loft
Eager to fall on the mattress so soft.
As he looks out the window, he sees on the lake
A family of ducks paddle by with a drake.
Further back, graceful swans begin to glide by
‘Til they migrate in pairs with their honks amplified.
“What a magical place,” he thinks, as he rests.
I could live elsewhere, but Alaska is best.
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