Thus armed, he faced the one remaining thing
that only common knowledge made him fear
(the live ones, in contrast, by reasoning,
were something that he didn’t dare go near).
The shell itself was mostly free of rust.
The moving parts had not fared near as well,
but Ciral had no method he could trust
the composition or its life to tell.
He’d recognized the creatures when he’d seen
some photographs of airplanes in the store,
then studied every book and magazine
that dealt with aviation facts and lore.
The wings, tail end, and landing gear were gone,
but he could see the scars where they had been.
The legs and other parts were added on.
’Twere these that had corroded way back when.
©2010 Louis A. Merrimac
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