SNOW BIRDS
The sheer weight of the machines, and roar they make as they rip through the sky, is a sharp contrast to the graceful symmetry their performance delivers.
Eight machines and eight pilots maneuvering as one.
With the blink of an eye they blow apart, eight planes in eight directions. Sufferer streams of colored smoke trail off to the different points of the compass.
Within moments, they regroup. The crowd below gasps. Eight precision machines melding back into one perfect form.
The science is clear, but so is the artistry. It is almost unfathomable, the moves and formations, even though it is happening right above.
As one, the spin in a loop, rolling to the right and holding their perfect formation, maintaining their impossible proximity.
They branch off and etch shapes in the sky, finally finishing off with a jet pierced heart.
And with that, they are gone - a testament to their spectators that lingers behind. The roar of their engines slowly fades out and the skied remain empty once more.
There is a reason why they are the best. Even when the show is over, the lines, and rolls, and loops, and spins remain.
The Snow Birds haunt the skies, as much as dreams. They are the lofty goal towards which we all strive.
We aim for precision, we aim for thrills, we aim for excellence - and we do it because we know what the results can be.
They can be perfect.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
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