fly-fishing and I can see him from the plane,
a little speck waving a black stick
back and forth over the bending blue
of a river. He never liked sports
but this one seems right – open water, no people,
no obligation to bring anything home.
I don’t know why I’m in a plane
but it feels good to see everything at last.
To the west, on the horizon,
which is hours away from accepting
the hot plummy sun, its yellow and red skirts,
a train whistles and I know
my mother is inside, finishing
a short story she started when she was young.
She is sitting by a window,
leather notebook in her lap, writing in clear
script that never changes during her lifetime
and doesn’t change now in the past
where the train whisks the days, smooth and fast
before they get boring.
Underneath the solid body
of the plane, eons that long ago
went by without me reappear.
Silky gray heads of sauropods
lift above the trees, nibbling.
A pterodactyl floats almost level with the plane
and nearly as wide. It circles and disappears,
circles again, the membranes of its canvas-like wings
vast and translucent, the tea-stained brown catching
the sun. We fly easily, side by side, having yet
such a long way to go.
