The Rescue

Pulling back on the rubber sling

like a bowstring,

Billy was wide-eyed

and wild with excitement

as I let go of the soft wooden fuselage.

The little aircraft soared

above the rooftop of the house.

Then while gracefully gliding

back down to earth,

it took an unexpected turn

and landed on top of the roof

covered with white rock.

Without a ladder

to retrieve it,

Billy and I eagerly agreed

to mount a rescue

by building our own ladder.

The first one to the top

of the rocky tundra

would fly the airplane

a dozen times in a row.

Such was the thinking

of two eight years old.

My Dad's wood supply was limited

to three-quarter round molding strips.

I reached the base of the summit first

with my rickety rails and rungs.

The first rung snapped like a pretzel, and

the whole ladder collapsed.

Throwing my toothpick ladder aside,

Billy came running like a fireman

with his solid ladder

made of two by two pine.

He successfully reached the roof with ease

and retrieved the down aircraft.

Luckily, there was no structural damage.

Below the white rocky summit,

Billy pulled back

on the fuselage like an arrow,

shooting the prized plane

high into the air,

over and over again.

The plane of balsa wood

landed on the green lawn

not once

but twelve times

in a row.

Billy reached the summit;

I couldn't get off the ground.

Billy was a great pilot;

I crashed.

There would be other

planes to fly made with 

better technology.

None ever landed

beyond my reach,

saving me from a

crash and burn.