if pigs could fly

In a quaint village, nestled by rolling fields

Lived Harold, a farmer, steadfast and sceptical.

He scoffed at tales of porcine aviation

Dismissing dreams of pigs soaring high.

Farmer Giles, with his whimsical notions

Laughed with the sun and worked with the moon.

Harold watched, arms crossed, eyes narrowed

Doubt clouding his heart, reason ruling his mind.

One evening, beneath a sky painted with twilight,

Harold stumbled upon Bill's contraption

A pig-shaped drone, a relic of dreams

Left by the barn, whispering secrets of flight.

Harold's curiosity sparked, a reluctant ember

He tinkered with the machine, hesitant yet drawn

A twist of fate, an unexpected ignition

The drone lifted, wobbling into the dusk.

Startled, Harold chased, feet pounding the earth

Through fields of wheat and meadows of clover

Until the drone settled, softly as a whisper

In the heart of the village, under watchful eyes.

Villagers gathered, murmurs of awe

Harold stood breathless, heart racing with wonder.

Farmer Giles stepped forward, a knowing smile,

"Sometimes, my friend, the impossible just needs a chance."

With newfound faith, Harold joined the quest

Transforming doubt into dreams, scepticism into hope.

Together, they built and flew, side by side

Bridging the gap between ground and sky.

The village watched, inspired and amazed

As pigs of metal and dreams took to the air.

Harold's journey from doubt to belief

A vote toward the power of faith and discovery.

In the end, they soared not just in flight

But in spirit, bound by a shared vision.

For in the heart of every sceptic lies a dream

Waiting for wings, ready to fly.