Take off, taking away, leaving family,
leaving friends for a southern state appeal.
I watch them from a congested commuter train
then think about them later on the plane,
as wheels retract and consequences impact.
At 21 I’m already twenty-gone.
I’m alone up here now, hesitant and hovering
above a waking world, above everything,
all civilizations reduced to needle points
through a small window, framed wide portal.
I can almost see how the horizon curves
just as its vastness is eclipsed in cushioned cloud.
One man, a hero among many of us
leaves his blinds down, allowing light
to punch through his waiting window,
illuminating inches of a darkened aircraft.
The sun, set free, sets fire to loose pillow particles
drifting through the air as if in zero gravity.
I think, 40,000 feet above the Earth
that it’s a beautiful image, and my forgotten film
freezes for mesmeric reality – forced to by fluff.
Later, the same sun sets, transforming a sky
which is slowly erupting to ripe peach perfection.
I feel myself shiver.
What would ants with a penchant for simile say,
when looking down on something from above,
on specks microscopic, a canvas in green and gold?
They can’t use themselves for comparison,
so would have to address it in a different fashion,
saying “they look like ______ from up here.”
Queer questions at 40,000 feet.