by Rowena Bastin Bennett
An airplane has gigantic wings
but not a feather on her breast;
She only mutters when she sings
and builds a hanger for a nest.
I love to see her stop and start;
She has a little motor heart
that beats and throbs and then is still.
She wears a fan upon her bill.
No eagle flies through sun and rain
so swiftly as an airplane.
I wish she would come swooping down
between the steeples of the town
and lift me right up off my feet
and take me high above the street,
that all the other boys might see
the little speck that would be me.