Bright coloured silk laid out on the ground basket tethered all around, the size of it astounds. The fan fires up to open the envelope, opening it up like a periscope. Air shivers down the silk rippling waves in coloured silk. Then comes the roar and hiss of the flame, heating the air from the burner mounted on a frame, sometimes fierce and sometimes tame. The heat from the air makes the silk flare and people stare as the balloon takes shape.
Struggling to stand and reach for the sky the canopy comes back to lie, as the pilot gives it another try. The balloon is soon erected, it drops its tethers and heads for the sky. Waving at crowds as the balloon heads for the clouds. The people below look in awe, as the balloon starts to saw. Up in the sky the current takes it high, until it is difficult to spy.
Gliding over towns and parks up high with swifts and larks, firing the burner to keep it high, now just a dot in the sky. Out over feels of cows and sheep, boats on water not so deep. Wind is dying it starts its descent, to land in a space without a dent. Slowly sinking down to earth along a field, we start to surf, down with a bump, and a scrape and a drag, it will soon be time to put it back in the bag.
The balloon comes to rest in a local field, gas turned off to bring it to heal. Then comes the trailer and ground crew, where it would land they never knew. They start to work folding the silk, all the air extracted up to the hilt, rolling it into a ball, into the bag it’s heavy to hall. Onto the trailer it takes them all, packing it tight basket and all. Then into the cab the crew all file, ready to return this valuable pile that makes people smile making it all worth while.
Rhythm of the Ink 