AIRBORN

Remnants of meandering river,
slow path, stagnant backwater.
Change comes slowly down there.
It just keeps looking the same,
even though it’s not.
More oxbows.
On ground: are they aware of them?
How much goes unnoticed?
The meeting of those
shapes is beyond thought.
Cut a wide swath and set the stage, for
a complex mix of reasons is in store.

Stifling palpable presence,
hot Texas air cocoons me.
This continent is only on
one plane of existence,
and I am on it.
Shrill sirens wail;
their only purpose to raise
our levels of fear and anxiety.

Beneath all the counterflux,
a stillness prevails.
Interruptions are just part of the flow.
The farther away we go;
the nearer we depart.

A nice thought:
to think that pain is behind me,
even while it engulfs me.
In the tower, the watcher waits
and disregards all else.
Softedged clouds hang low here,
looks like we won’t climb over & above them.
Stillborn, airborne, or caught between?

November 2003, towards Little Rock