Out An Airplane Window

From the air, the turquoise water has no
hint of litter or pollution. You cannot hear
the cry of birds, or children, nor see signs,
the words some ten or twelve feet high upon
the thousand rooftops far below that indicate
the dramas housed beneath the tiles and shingles.
Fly far enough above the poverty and anger
and a city clothes itself in doll-like qualities,
the colors quaint and clean, the lines drawn neatly
on the canvas of the earth. Close and personal,
the story isn't quite the same, but though the
tragic circumstances and the smells can hit you
in the face and make you long for clouds and
sky and water that go on forever, we weren't
made for that. It wouldn't suit us, but in doses
brief, we drink quick gulps of heaven in the air
before our feet touch solid ground again and we
can hear the singing of the birds (and children) once again.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014