a leaf in the wind

So cold and numb, the hailstrikes scarcely hurt;
their relative velocity's quite small.
Ten thousand meters off the Aussie dirt,
Wisnierska wasn't piloting at all.
Unconscious baggage in convection's blast
her glider--packed with snow--persists to fly.
Her life-force on the wane, and fading fast
the mystery is that she didn't die.
Where Gadd and Castle opt to sit one out,
she takes the meethead's word the day looks good.
Subordinating any private doubt,
'though now, she might repent that, if she could.
Mere gossamer within the stormhead's suck
she lives to fly again, through dumbest luck.

powered

The Ozone layer shields us from UV
absorbing photons in its short-wave slot.
Those photons leave behind their energy;
each daylong hour, the tropopause gets hot.
Earth's shadow cuts that flow off every night;
black-body radiation cools Earth's face.
IR flows out, that had in-come as light
a tepid ember radiates towards space.
Beneath, it's sport to soar the troposphere
where heating's driven by warm Earth below.
convecting thermals get me out of here
be it from foot-launch, or from aero-tow.
The solar fusion-pile supplies the drive
that makes a pilot feel that they're alive.

summer storm

Coy virga leave the ground unsatisfied
it's hot, thick breath's been wasted on thin air
the gust-front kicks around what laid there, dried
but all its moisture's carried off, elsewhere.
The desert flora specialize in dearth,
but every year or two, still need a storm
delivering redemption to the Earth
in places where to desiccate's the norm.
Bright scarves of rain, dark veils of steel-grey sleet
with thunder syncopating melodies
still leave this courtship dangling, incomplete
nine times in ten, it's just a dry-run tease.
When wadis gush, and grabens inundate
each Blue Moon sees this drama consummate.

booming

Monsoons graze California in July
arroyos that lay dust-choked race, and churn
But where coy virga leave the surface dry,
the desert vegetation's prone to burn.
Convection that a pilot rides all day
can over-do it with a  frightful jolt.
It's time to fold our fragile wings away
before the valley greets that lightning bolt.
Mulholland stole their river for his town
and Owens farmers still revile his name.
Now, what was orchards' all sage-green and brown
and episodic'ly consigned to flame.
Firefighters don't appreciate the joke;
the empty Owens Lake's now filled--with smoke.

low flight

Cast off the surly bonds of gravity;
embrace the joy awaiting us on high.
It's not enough to live life in 2-D
when once you've realized we're meant to fly.
A kite's a pretty minimal machine
a bargain, amortized on so much fun.
And as a sport, it's almost wholly green;
convection's driven--gratis--by the sun.
Uncircumscribed by stadium, or court,
with little but the wind for us to hear.
Apotheosis in the realm of sport!
We're only bounded by the atmosphere.
A pleasure long beyond the reach of kings
belongs to anyone who'll take to wings.

instability

Convection roils our lower atmosphere
transporting solar energy away
if, at most frequencies the air is clear
not brown like Delhi, Beijing, or LA.
There, photons give it up far overhead
the upper air's no cooler than below
the column luminesces infrared
and what's been heated's got no place to go.
Still, all of it must stratify at night
for lack of insolation, gravity
like Maxwell's demon, sorts them out by height;
the atmosphere grows stable as a sea.
Inversion's normal as the night grows old
but when the soaring's sweet, aloft it's cold

blue bubble

Convection roils our lower atmosphere
transporting solar energy away
if, at most frequencies the air is clear
not brown like Delhi, Beijing, or LA.
There, photons give it up far overhead
the upper air's no cooler than below
the column luminesces infrared
and what's been heated's got no place to go.
Still, all of it must stratify at night
for lack of insolation, gravity
like Maxwell's demon, sorts them out by height;
the atmosphere grows stable as a sea.
Another planet, orbiting its sun
might prove quite alien, when all is done.

team flying

"kick dust!" he urged, and I did what I could
to mark the wind where Tom proposed to land
his shadow dwindled from me as I stood
in bitterness, and sage and burning sand
one hundred miles to Janie's Ranch from Walt's
395 inspires a pilot's dreams
beside the shriveled river in its fault
seductively, the century mark gleams
 the heated air breaks free and roars aloft
to carry pilots back into the sky
when someone on the ground touches it off
his club mates get to claim it and get high
each valley crossing takes a bit of luck
but Tom just never seems to give a fuck