“…generations”

Back when cars had fins, and they still delivered milk in bottles my model plane got loose in Prospect Park. It flew away. I suppose it’s flying still. Now over Tibet. I should have put a message in it. 

The cord snaps!  

My 12 year old self recedes away. The plane a WW1 Sopwith Camel begins it’s new life. Then it flies above, and out of the park. Tail winds make it soars above the city, over the Brooklyn Bridge, over Chinatown past Times Square.

By now the fuel fails the prop sputters, but the warm updrafts keep her going. Past Columbus Circle she’s on course for Central Park, Prospect’s more famous sister. Over the Sheep Meadow she goes. Till at last just past Bethesda Fountain my Sopwith glides into, and is entangled in the upper branches of an old oak.

Here begins her decades of service as a nest for generations of blue jays, robins, and doves.