Fly Like An Eagle
Comments(10) The old pilot is heading westward, the glow of the setting sun turning the silver wings of his aircraft to gold, the arc of his life trailing behind him in memories forever lost.
And yet somehow he knows the way like a migrating bird knows the way. It is an instinct above and beyond the damage done to his brain by Alzheimer’s.
He is not yet on final approach, but the time for that will come sooner than later, and in his soul he knows it.
With a deft hand and the light touch borne of years of experience, he aligns his craft with the runway far in the distance. The runway, too, glows gold.
The runway is not an earthly tarmac, it’s a skyway to the stars that flows ever forward to the far reaches of the universe and on past time itself.
Like birds that must answer the call to migrate, we must all answer the call of this journey … from birth to death, from dust to stardust.
The old pilot smiles, his face aglow with the setting sun.
He is finally going home.
