December 17, 1903

A visit to the Wright Brothers memorial at Kitty Hawk in October 1986 unexpectedly provoked me to write a poem, and the arrival of December 17 again renews the thrill of the remembered occasion.

Oh, calm brothers, a thousand glides
off Kill Devil Hill and you know
your Flyer's cambered wings can catch enough

of wind to lift machine and man.
You've patented inventions for
control of deadly pitch and yaw and roll.

You've proved that you can steady pitch
by inclining the elevators
to bring horizon up or down again.

And yaw you know is nothing now;
the Flyer's tail by turning round
can stop a spin and steady course ahead.

And roll you rule, prostrate pilot,
keeping horizon flat in front
by twisting and throwing a hip against

the yoke to warp the dipping wing,
to bank it up and turn the tail
to slow the higher, faster-moving wing.

And you believe your little engine
can agitate those narrow blades
to thrust the Flyer winging through the air.

To Kitty Hawk then! Cold December.
Langley's had his fling and it seems
to you two now to be your turn to throw.

Tuesday the eighth and Langley fails
again. Prepare the Flyer, men!
Saturday the wind's too slight to ascend.

Sunday, devout sons, how like you
not to disdain your father's calling
by working at flying. And so you rest.

Monday the fourteenth. Did you toss
a coin, did you draw straws, or how
did you decide Wilbur would get first whack?

Wilbur doesn't loosen his tie,
doesn't take off his vest or collar,
exchanges only hat for cap to fly.

Oh, but look! he's turned up too soon
after leaving the track—is he
okay, Orville? You take two days to fix

the spars. Wednesday night the grounds freeze
and Thursday's wind is twice as strong
as you would like to try the Flyer in.

But Dayton and the bike shop call,
time gnaws you at Kill Devil Hill,
and it is your day, your time, you feel it.

So go now, Orville, it's your turn.
But first, show Mr. Daniels where
to stand to take the picture of the flight.