In the car, midday. The freeway's just over there but there are no kidding 10 stop lights between this car and that onramp, each light commanding a maximum number of queued cars.

Suddenly it occurs to me that this must be the prison pilots know.

The skies in their sights, engines grabbing at propulsion. Stop to let another giant one slowly roll by. Wait for one to take off. Roll. Another one takes off. Wait.

By the time they've swiveled the vessel onto that endless black ribbon of all-ramp, they must be bursting out of their minds, taut from holding back.

The light turns green.

The tower OKs take-off.

Focus!

Foot down, full throttle.

... Pull back.

The engine actualizes—relax into the release of that beast.

All sky.