Dolores Hayden

Focus on the shapes.Cirrus, a curl, stratus, a layer,cumulus, a heap. Humilis, a small cloud, cumulus humilis, a fine day to fly. Incus, the anvil, stay grounded. Nimbus, rain, be careful, don’t take off near nimbostratus, a shapeless layer of  rain, hail, ice, or snow. Ice weighs on the blades of  your propeller, weighs on the entering edge of your wings. Read a cloud, decode it, a dense, chilly mass can shift, flood with light. Watch for clouds closing under you, the sky opens in a breath, shuts in a heartbeat.

Exuberance sips bootleg gin from a garter flask with a ruby monogram “E.” She wears a red dress one size too small, eyes wide, she flirts with everyone, dares Lincoln Beachey to fly until he runs out of gas, rides a dead engine all the way down. She watches Ormer Locklear climb out of the cockpit two hundred feet up, tap dance on his upper wing as the houses of  honest families with their square-fenced yards slide below his shuffle. An oval pond winks in the sun, like a zero. Exuberance challenges pilots to master the Falling Leaf, perfect the Tailspin, ignore the Graveyard Spiral, the Doom Loop. These aviators predict every American will fly. Exuberance believes Everybody Ought to Be Rich