I see the freedom he talks about.
Not in the sky or the way we glide,
Not in the roar of engines or glare of the sun.
In his eyes there is a sky bluer than blue.
And when he talks about his love his words float and his eyes drift to the sky, effortlessly.
His eyes drum with spirit louder than the engine.
And in his eyes small fleets of the sun glow like embers.
In his eyes a thousand things can be found.
In his eyes, maybe I too, can fly.