Progress

Through winding, narrow, dusty lanes

We drove the old bay mare,

My small son's hands holding the reins,

While on the quiet air

We heard each note the meadow lark

Played on his silver flute.

Now roads are straight and paved. But hark!

The rippling, glad salute

Has grown so slow, as we race by

We hear but one short note.

Hands on the wheel, Son gives a sigh.

A tightening in my throat,

I hear about his dream airplane

And yearn for dusty roads again.