Up there, streaming smoke dissects sky
like rivers carve the land,
The past trails, clings to polished wings,
Before wounds seal around the seams
and leave fresh blue within the now.
Through beady eyes inside the pit,
There is nothing but the scuttle
and shuffle of ants in mounds below,
Or the acres of horizon that
define with curving lines, the bubble
something, somewhere, might have blown.
Down here, a great snake of traffic feels like a cage,
Fumes spat from rusting pipes all fight
to rise where eyes fixate on what is flying overhead;
An arrow, a spear of birds in flight
across a canvas, clear and clean and bright,
for the shadow
of the plane.