Flying, Reflying, Farming

We are flying white air. The most pioneering

falcon of all is hopelessly beneath us.

Nothing above but sky bleached out

by the sun’s remorseless hammering

through ozone. Our lives inch back below,

the farm gray because a cruel past, weather

or mother, turns the spirit gray. The oldest

daughter left one day for good. The first son

(how can I know this at this altitude)

is trapped for life. At best, he can only get rich.

What good reason could the pilot have

for suddenly pointing the plane at the sun

and cutting the power? I hear his

hysterical laughter all the air down

to rock. We implode into acres

of black we rehearsed every young rage.

Another farm, tiny as the attendant’s voice

on the defective intercom slips back

beneath us, bright orange this time and home.

We are flying white air.

The aluminum creaks. The wing shudders.

We are flying rough air. Remember

the wing snapping back over Europe

(where was that?), the agonizing sheer

you saw in slow motion, the vomit

you held back with prayer, and your friend

spinning down fatal ether

man had no business in. Back at the base

you were sobbing fields away from the rest

and the shepherd in black offered you pears

and wouldn’t take your money. You claimed

you paid him with tears but that made no sense.

The air is solid again. We eat our way north.

We are flying good air.

We have entered the pattern.

Power reduced. Flaps down. Seat belt sign on.

In a moment, no smoking. This is always

a major kind of return. Thirty years ago

we came down and laughed and shook hands

after a rough one. We congratulated ourselves

for being alive. Long before that

we were ignorant farmers. Remember the night

you came home cheated in town of the money

you’d saved to paint the farm green.

Your wife called you weak and you stammered

and wept. Late one morning years later,

drunk and alone, you remembered above us

air is white, and you knew your next wife

would forgive you, your crops come

fatter than clouds, old friends return.

We have landed on schedule. Reverse thrust.

We are safe. We are natural on earth.