that was her destination
leaning toward the final flight
on the sliver of silver
the remainder of dreams–
crashing in the desert,
the fear of not doing so,
then the landing in Calcutta,
factories and rickshaws, train whistles
the contemplation of civilization,
where unlike the sky, lie beginnings and endings,
but this is not about Amelia,
or her navigation through everyone’s
egg-blue frontier, this is about truce,
and what can cure in troubled times–
Pandemics or protests, the bare distance
between continents and a hug,
blue deepens, boundaries cross, and speech
translates to the language of the sky,
where capture and rescue are one and the same.