The men who fly are a breed of men
Unto themselves. We’ll not know again
The little boy on a grassy hill
Who sees a hawk and knows the thrill
Of the summer wind on an up-turned wing,
And the joy a graceful flight can bring.

There was a dream in this boy’s eyes,
That reflected the challenge of distant skies.

The passing of time and the graying of hair.....
But the eye is still sharp and the light is still there.
And he sees, as he scans the far blue sky,
A dream that is missed by the passerby.

The men who fly are a special breed.
It’s true...they spring from a certain seed.

A new kind of pilot has now made the scenes
His flesh is firm and his mind is keen.
He’s good .. it’s true .. no need to ask.
The computers say he’s right for the task.
His eyes, like steel, his determined face
Show he’s looking farther into space.

But his life will never know the thrill
Of the little boy on the grassy hill.
Where, as far as his eager eyes could see,
The air was clean and the sky was free;
Where the hawk soared high on the summer air
And the boy imagined he was there.

Before it’s too late, if the world is wise,
It will honor these men who love the skies.

Pat Branin Douglass