(I feel like this might be better as prose…and it’s FAR TOO LONG)
I rarely am a spectator to the rising
of the sun, but today I had no choice.
I drove through the fog to the departure
gate and, two hours later, emerged
onto the tarmac in the pale light
of new morning. Fog had been burned
away by the licking fingers of the sun,
and it flickered in glee as it rose over
the mountain. Warmed to see my old
friend, I waited, with others, on the stairs
outside a too-small airplane to visit a place
without mountains. The air was cold,
but see-through, clearly, freshly morning.
I often forget that I like how the morning
flames with possibilities.
Another plane took off with a rushing roar
as we stood on a nearby runway. Conversation
ceased, heads turned in awe to watch
the miracle of flight, the sound, the fury
of modern travel. Moments later, we entered our
own plane and promptly forgot.
The man in front of me, with short curly
dreadlocks, really should have checked
the luggage he’s carrying: his guitar.
Instead, it goes on the plane, on a packed-
out flight. The cheery attendant tries to help
shove the instrument into an overhead bin,
but it’s just a little too thick, with the case.
I see a slight concern wrinkle the space
between his deep eyes and I understand.
On our crowded flight, only two seats
are unclaimed – one next to him, 14D,
one next to me, 15C.
So he sits by his guitar, carefully strapping
it into a seat belt that hugs its curvy body,
at peace with his lovely companion.
My seat remains unfilled,
(save for a magazine tossed carelessly
over after finishing the final page.)