Thunder filled our white frame house.
Our family ran outside and looked up,
Airplanes in formation roared overhead,
Uncountable flying machines rumbled above,
I grabbed my five year old sister’s hand,
She squeezed it tightly,
Staring upward toward the silver slivers in the sky,
I shaded my eyes with my other hand.
Mother called, “Maybe, maybe Uncle Bryant is the
Pilot in one of them.”
That made them seem friendlier,
We all waved wildly,
But we still clung to
Cerita M. Hewett