The Top Of The World

The Top of the WorldThe Little Plane taxied down the field through the dense fog, its tail wheel bouncing stiffly over the clumps of grass. The fog was so heavy it was almost palpable, moved in lethargic billows like slowly exhaled cigar smoke. The limp wind sock at midfield was tattered, the high-identification orange color faded and streaked to a light pink. The fog seemed to muffle the buzz of the motor, cloaked everything, sound and substance alike, in a gray like dead teeth or wet concrete....