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  • Airplanes, Pilots, and brothers

    On this still, warm, summer’s eve, we have abandoned our mashed potatoes to race across that field, hide behind an ancient Walnut tree, and spy on a tiny machine. He has landed on our grass and taxied beneath a huge oak; and the charming little machine is purring sweetly in the cool evening air, swinging its tail and waggling its rudder like a Humming Bird settling itself for the night.