Poems by Triplane Builder - William (Bill) Woodall
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Clones of cirrus-artificial-- pointing-flaring-'cross the sky
Bred in earth's deep inner-belly-not to be 'til man could fly.
"Crude" you were in the beginning so unlike what you became-
"Refined" at first, but still unready, called by now, some other name.
Burned by engines, were your brothers, as they lifted you on high,
Not 'til many things in order--- would your presence greet the eye.
Chill of height, and trace of water- need these two for you to grow-
Timing now is all-important- to convert-to make your show.
"Change of state" is what they call it-those who speak as if they know,
Ice-cold liquid-glowing vapor---microseconds- in the flow.
From the process gas and water-spewed behind and left to chance-
Frozen now by nature's ice-box-to become your dying dance.
Time once was when you were hated-gave away the bombers flight-
Now you mostly speak of travel-foretell weather from your sight.
Questions-questions---some are raising-- is there something else you do?
Do you alter weather patterns?-Refract the rays the sun sends through?
Well for me-I'll just observe you-- from my watch-site-- far below,
And envy those who cause and use you-- destinations where they go.
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