it's a hot dry dusty summer afternoon. The heat simmering off the cracked weed choked taxiway is palatable, visibly twisting the view towards the distant mountains. you scan the horizon towards the west, for that’s where it'll come from..
there.. a dot.
low.
thru the waves of heat mirage you discern nothing more at first.. you squint, ears straining for the sound, you lean a bit forward; hands now up to shade your eyes..
yes, this is it. it's coming. the fuselage, the sun glints off the silver leading edges, the canopy. it grows larger, draws closer, but still no sound.
but you can feel it.. the tarmac trembles. closer...
suddenly, it's all over you; there's a shuddering crescendo of energy, it's palatable you can see it, feel it, taste it, your pushed back physically half a step and the furious thunder of 2200 horsepower lands upon you like a surprise sandbag...
a flash of silver, wing dipped low, the mind takes the snapshot, the camera still hanging from your limp hand at your side.... and it's away, receding as fast as it came; trash and loose cans tumble across the taxiway in it's wake.
Warbird.
Nothin like it in the world.
Nothin.
Fly 'em, by god. Chaining glory to a hardstand is a crime.
Fly 'em.