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Summer skies look all the more promising to me when I spy a high flier leaving his white streak of airplane exhaust against the clear blue backdrop.

I suppose truly natural sights like sunrises, moonglows and cloud formations should impress me the most, but I like the obvious trail of personal accomplishment.

The flying machine's puff shows progress from a particular point way above the world to a spot that stretches as far as the pilot can manage. The line is always straight, and though it only appears to lengthen at a creeping pace, I trace the course and realize there is someone who is going places at a steady rate. I imagine the person barely notices how quickly the plane travels.

On occasion I have noticed patches of sky in which the airplane is missing, but because of its telltale streaming signal, I know that it has crossed this territory previously and moved onward to new destinations.

As time proceeds, the trail disburses and since the hum of the engine is long gone, the airplane's route fades until people would never suspect it has made this passage.

It is just the way sweet success feels to me. For a spell, it is real. Then it drifts down without being visible and absorbs into future efforts.