Take a photo of light bleeding
through trees, filling up the lens.
Listen to the jet parting the clouds overhead as the
mud sucks at the rubber boots on your feet.
The image distorts and disappoints
in equal measure.
The cold ground whispers threats
about swallowing you up, while you
breathe despair at the jet so
out of reach.
It takes you nowhere on
this winter morning,
as it takes them
far away from here.
Grain and noise can’t make it better.
The filth of the field flecks your jeans,
and that’s all there is to it.
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Twenty thousand feet of nothing.
You are standing
outside the woods alone,
as the wind and rain
have their way with your
insufficient, open jacket.
In the trees there is shelter
of sorts, but you won’t take it.
You will wait,
to stare at the silvering sky.
Reaching for arrivals and departures.
Dreams and escapes.
Water drops
rat-a-tat-tat
on your hood.
Heavy weather in December.
The picture never improves.
And with a sigh,
you delete it.
