Contrail  
     
 

A white dart high against the azure void
seems to outrun its own sound,
and the twin chalklines it scratches in the sky.
The streaks spread and blur,
merging to become a ghostly spine
marking the passage of travelers
bound for vacations, homecomings and meetings.
Some are excited, some bored,
a few are terrified, and others are asleep.

We sit basking on the deck of our retirement place,
among firs and pines in the Cascade foothills.
The only wings surrounding us
are those of chickadees,
nuthatches and finches
taking turns at our feeders.

We don’t envy those other fliers,
as we wait for their man-made sound
to lose its way.

 

 
     
 
© 2009  Michael Yanega
12 May 2009
 

 

 

 

 

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