Don’t tell me tales of crowded skies,
Or rules that fill the books,
Don’t show me runways lined with jets,
Or travelers’ sour looks.

I’ve heard the airports look like camps,
With people set to stay,
Through tired eyes they stare at screens,
While little children play.

At Kittyhawk they had a dream,
That someday man would fly,
They tell me now that someone staked
Their claims throughout the sky.

I don’t expect a private cloud,
No special place for me,
But when they gave me pilots’ wings,
I thought the sky was free.

The mighty ships that sail the blue,
Were born of someone’s dreams,
But now they say there’s no room left
The sky is full it seems.

So line the jets up on the ramp,
And pack the people in,
They’re building hundreds more you know
I wonder who will win.

I think that soon they’ll take the roads,
And make me park my car,
The ocean waves are crowded too
Restrictions can’t be far

I guess it’s back to grass for us,
Who like to fly for fun,
The airports built for flyers all,
Are closed except for some.

And by the way a closing word,
From thousands to the few,
No matter what the rules might say,
We think it’s OUR SKY TOO.

by Patrick J. Phillips