It’s warm. The moon illuminates the clouds.
Our jump is set for midnight, so we rest.
As silently as if we’d taken vows,
We wait. Each time we wait it’s like a test.
It’s like a test of patience, not of nerves,
With backs pressed up against the rigger’s shed;
One box is filled with mains, one with reserves.
We wait, clichéd, as patient as the dead.
In time we mount the mains upon our backs.
In time we strap reserves across our chests.
Inside the bird it’s harder to relax,
Because it’s warm and we are tightly pressed.
And still the moon illuminates the sky.
And still we’re waiting silently to die.

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