written by Nathan
Summer 1999
A circular presence is created
by the creeping of the horizon.
We sit high above the cotton
cumulus clouds, cowering below.
In a swift and steady sail,
we soar to meet a shining sun,
until thirty thousand feet; and then
the cruise has just begun.
The land laid out like carpet
shouts: Plains! Mounts! and Fields of grain!
The captain and his crew bustle about
to better serve
each frequent flyer, businessman,
or student aboard his airborne plane.
With no spill, delay or aggravated way,
each of us are fine--
I, we, us: passengers aboard the DC-9.
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