What happened
We were going to gather snow
From the tops of the mountains
In summer
That’s what he said he wanted
From there we would carry it back
On the backs of our “swans”
To the city
To sprinkle it onto the roiling streets
And citizens squinting up joyfully, gratefully
This we would do not for personal glory
But purely for that of the city
Eternal glory to the nest where we were born
Had you been there on the white cold sand
December, a week before Christmas
Admiring the “lifesaving man”
Who took the first picture
The one where Wilbur
Is running beside it extending his hand
As if to steady a cyclist on
You’d have forgiven our thinking
A page had been snatched
From his notebooks by the wind
A secret page, such as the one
On which he has written, I do not wish
To divulge or publish this
Because of the evil nature of men
He who invented the parachute
Before he perfected a flying device
He who wondered in public why
They had failed to employ hot-air balloons
To rescue the souls who screamed for help
From the burning towers
Gondolas with nets strung between them
Purse boats of the air
An older pilot friend remembered
A time they had tied paper parachutes
To hundreds of Baby Ruth candy bars
Then flew to the racetrack at Hialeah
Saw folks in the grandstand looking up
To watch the chocolate bars float down
And laughing, Hallelujah!
That’s when “he knew he had to fly”
The “he” here being a twelve-year-old
Paul Tibbets, 1927
Outside of Dayton, fall of aught-five
After a flight over Huffman Prairie
A friend named Root asked Wilbur
What it was good for, this machine
He got “a single word” in reply
Root later reported, regarding the answer
How it had “greatly marred” his enjoyment
Root liked bees, knew all about them
Published a magazine on their culture
Professed relief years later on learning
That certain planes hunt forest fires
The word was war
What happened
We were going to gather snow
From the tops of the mountains
In summer
Snow to sprinkle on burning children
From baskets in the hottest Julys
To drift and sift and melt in their eyes
Then we would turn and go after more
Pursued by their cries
That’s what he said he wanted