We did a bit of bird watching this weekend.
We stood with countless others—ignoring the heat that rose from the pavement, binoculars and cameras in hand—waiting for the next bird to take flight.
There was nary a Black-capped Chickadee, Belted Kingfisher, or Red tailed Hawk to be had, mind you. There were, however, Warhawks, Yellow Perils, Mustangs, Bird dogs, and a Thunderbolt. Warbirds that spend the majority of their retirement years parked in the likes of our own Warhawk Air Museum.
But every now and again, they get taxied out to the runway. Every now and again, a pilot climbs into their cockpit, their gauges whirl to life, and with a low rumble, they take to the skies.
It’s a sight to be hold.
Of course, the best part of the day caught me completely unaware. We were standing in a field, next to our car, when a Thunderbolt and two Warhawks flew directly overhead. I didn’t get it on film. Instead, I stood there, like days of old, looking up into a clear blue sky—one hand on my hip, the other shielding my eyes from the sun. They seemed so close, I felt as if I could reach up and touch them. They took my breath away, those big old planes. And in that moment, I was glad I didn’t have time to grab my camera or my cell phone. After all, some things are better seen with your own two eyes . . .