Sun Over a Robinson 44II Raven

He convinces a red teardrop to tilt and ascend into the sky with just two blades circling overhead like a halo and a tail to generate sideways thrust. Below, beyond the Strip, pools of blue punctuate the backyards across vast, beige desert sprawl as we chop through Railroad Pass Highway 93 towards the dam. He has not exactly grown wings but is birdlike nonetheless– soaring through the air, always vigilant, aware one small miscalculation, one hasty jolt of the stick, could turn the ground, not so far beneath us, into a predator. I swallow nervously, eat my microphone, let excited spurts fly, as bubbles of anti-gravity rise up from my stomach, and escape like belches. Only awe and pride, I hope, are advertised on my face as I settle into trusting my brother, pilot of the Raven, a boy I once saw fall out of a tree.