The Hang Gliders

-Cape Cod, Massachusetts

Dead into a wall of wind, they cliff jump

with parabolic wings curled over pilots

cradled in goose down and canvas.

Hands on control wires raised toward heaven,

they spiral thermals with red-tailed hawks,

arcing from Marconi to White Surf,

soaring until wind rush and ocean chill

sap strength, practiced pilots nailing gymnast

landings on two feet, novices descending

like leg-splayed colts, kicking into scrub oak

and stunted white pine, lines tangled,

sails shredded, my doctor-mind reviewing

first aid for fractures and shock, wishing

I had latex gloves, admiring their guts,

the casual way they cast their fates to the wind.