The frigate bird is so jagged in shape
and so extremely dark that
the edges of its wings
incise the sky scalpel-clean
and remove its brightness
like a slow stroke of black lightning,
and the wing of this airplane
with knife-edge flaps tucked tight
and spoilers fluttering now and then,
slices the sunlight at 39,000 feet:
Beyond the earth's curve, Mississippi
is warmed by the same rays
glinting from us above the Irish Sea.
How do they dissipate,
these sharp events in the sky,
so that the absence of all color
within the perimeter of a bird
doesn’t send us bolt upright
from our beach chairs,
blinking at the void?
How can the brief twitch
of gleaming aluminum
fail to provoke a gasp as it
lifts an inch to keep us hurtling level,
at such speed in such cold, thin air,
with our headsets and mini-pillows
toward the green of England?
~~~~~~~~~~
Douglas Logan
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