First Falcon
- Christina DeSantis
- 23 hours ago
- 2 min read
59ers & Friends,
This poem in honor of Don Brooks was composed by Jeff Rhodes, Class of 1987. It is significant on several levels. The obvious one is to honor Don.
For those of you who do not know Jeff, he is a second generation '59er, the son of Brigadier General Jim Rhodes. It was my good fortune to meet Jeff when he was in the first grade and see him progress through our Academy as a top graduate, and much later working in the same company.
Note Jeff used the title of Don's book to name the poem.
Max Miller
Jeff used ChatGPT and Don’s bio to create the poem.
First Falcon
On a Christmas day in Texas,
’neath a wide and patient sky,
a boy looked up through winter light
and watched the aircraft fly.
Before he knew of distant wars,
before the cadet’s call,
his heart had chosen heaven’s road—
the blue above us all.
He came when there were no traditions,
no marble worn by time,
just wind across the prairie grass
and dreams in youthful prime.
The First Falcons stood together
where the Academy would rise,
and carved with discipline and hope
a standard for the skies.
Through SAC’s long silent vigil,
in the cold and watchful night,
he flew the B-47 onward,
kept the B-52 in flight.
Where history’s weight was carried
by steady hands and will,
he served with quiet excellence—
a guardian standing still.
Then Vietnam’s harsh horizon
called him lower, closer still;
the Bronco skimmed the jungle line,
the air alive with will.
Three hundred fifty-seven times
he answered danger’s plea,
and once through flame and shattered wing
he fell — yet rose, set free.
Marked by courage, earned in trial,
by medals bravely worn,
he carried not his honors high,
but lightly, almost torn
from stories told with gentle humor,
with laughter at the end—
for hero was a word he kept
reserved for other men.
In Korea love awaited,
and his life found truer art:
no mission matched the landing place
he found in Jeannie’s heart.
Through forty-eight shared faithful years
their partnership would stand—
a steadier and finer flight
than any he had planned.
The logbooks filled with hours flown,
seven thousand lines of air,
yet after wings and uniform
his service still was there.
He healed and helped and volunteered
where young cadets began,
and gave them what the First Falcons gave—
an example of a man.
A storyteller by the fireside,
a poet among friends,
a servant in his quiet faith
that neither fades nor ends.
The Rockies held his later days,
but heaven held his view—
for those who spend their lives in blue
are always passing through.
So when the evening bugle sounds
beyond our earthly sight,
we trust he heard familiar wings
approach in golden light.
And called once more by higher orders,
he answered, calm and true—
“First Falcon ready.
Cleared for flight.
I’m coming home to You.”
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