Flight Path

Now, the click of keys in a quiet room

and my easy, rhythmic breath. Outside,

long legato sounds, night insects, a

soft symphony, or some electrical hum,

this blanket of low noise comforts more than

claustrophobic silence—sound giving depth and

shape to what is beyond my walls and open windows.

Low hum of traffic on New Scotland every now and again.

Now a night flight bisects the sky, a gathering whine and

whoosh from the south, a pilot scanning instruments,

grids and lines glowing green, numbers and

lights marking a path. Through small ovals, someone

is seeing the bright plaza, the capitol, the hospital,

little cones of amber street light, the order and sense

of streets clear when viewed from above,

a city running smoothly, growing larger as altitude drops,

this plane from anywhere—and I'm that passenger as well,

looking down on the light in front of my house.

Gear down now and that turbulence, the glissando pitch

of the turbines, slight adjustments for wind speed,

the green runway lights winking into view, this overhead path

crossing my own, moments shared somehow.