From fourty thousand feet it all should look
so still but still its not but still esprit
and shifting down below perception’s brook
with current rivers flowing on the sea.
Now streams are passed from stewardess to us
and so we downed them just to be polite
to her and to the flows of daily trust
when midnight catches us surprised in flight.
Then ice and land and clouds at once all flow,
together slipping past at our full speed.
The ground approaches upward and we grow
toward it more soft with our eroded need.
These images wash out by jet-lagged night.
Exhaustion’s wind did drive this surreal flight.
The last leg of my flight from Atlanta to Anchorage was a bit uncomfortable. Let’s just say there were three seats holding at least the weight of five to six people. And I had the window seat. The view was my escape.
If I intend to try more sonnets, I need to re-read my Byron.