Get on a small prop plane, carry
only a backpack,
past the deflated windsock, signaling
no direction.
Note how the air smells: bitter diesel,
slight sting in the nostrils.
Tarmac familiar as any neighborhood driveway,
leading to a craft the size of a big station wagon.
Eight strangers entirely alone,
in miniature seats. We don’t know each other.
Sensing so many bumps,
the engine growls, shuddering
against our backs. Conversation, too
hard to hear or speak. Airborne,
we must be fearless.
We feel it all: every tip, slight turn,
or resistance, while entering and exiting a cloud.
Brief glimpses of geometric green and brown farmland,
mussel blue lakes wedged between cliffs, shredded fog.
Buckle in
trust altitude’s spot of
smooth motion to settle you, the wings
stretching into the comfort,
of sky as home.
After working in the fine arts for decades, Jane switched to poetry. She loves expressing visual images in words, pulling meaning from the natural world, and contemplating our place within it. The pandemic turned her focus on how we think about death, vaccination lead her to the afterlife.
