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From another time, another life, a moment engraved.

The Drop
There is an other-worldness to a parachute drop at night,
and when its a HALO, there is even more strangeness.
Jumping above the clouds, in air too thin to breath is a fright,
only an air mask keeps you alive, when the works may turn into a mess.

The icy air cuts through your suit, making you shiver out of control,
or maybe its a bit of fear, coming for a joy ride on your mortal soul.
The chutes and equipment bags hang like lead weights, taking their toll,
making movement a clumsy dance down the narrow aluminum aisle.

The ready light shifts in color, you have passed the point of return, live or die,
you step up to the hatch, with only blackness in your future, you go out.
The air slams you to the side, as you glimpse the aircraft’s tail flash by,
close enough to count the rivets, if you could see them without doubt!

You fall into the dark, your eyes adapting to the dark, amid the churning sky,
balancing on the airflow, arms and feet spread to hold you in that mad descent.
Far below you sense, more then see, a surface far below, and its drawing nigh,
you check the altimeter to see where you are, still more then four miles unspent.

In your descent, the wind howls like a beast, roaring a dare, and its threat,
you pray everything goes as you planned, there’s no room for mistakes.
Practice, practice, all you can count on since you stepped out of the jet,
and a passel of praying that the cruel Fates do not a hand take.

That surface below you is all hilly and tumbled, racing at you like a train,
you glance the gauge, could it be right or wrong, as your stomach churns.
Fear is your passenger, riding your soul as you dare to go on so insane,
trusting the gauge and riding it out, you guts go crazy, each taking their turns.

With a speed that takes your breath away, you slam into to that mass below,
and find its just clouds, in turmoil that tumbles you in wild turbulence.
You fight to keep the balance, to maintain some kind of control in that flow,
falling in canyons in the clouds, in your projectile's path it must be sensed.

There is air now, so you peel the mask, drag’n your first air of the night,
wondering what is in store for you, you check equipment and prepare.
You have only a moment, as the chute opens, and reality pulls in tight,
like a living pendulum you swing about, break dancing in the air.

Only in the last moment do you see the agitated surface below,
tensing up, you release the equipment bag and await the impact.
Like a stone cast into a deep pool, you penetrate the surface row,
into a bubbling softness, your environment, you arrive intact,

Releasing the chute and collecting your gear, you take a bearing,
with easy strokes you begin the swim, to somewhere a job to do.
Into the darkness, you follow an invisible line, stupid or daring,
you remain deep, and in stealth, to something which is overdue.

by Trike Road Poet