Flight

We are half way across the Pacific when day rushes us. The sea gleams like dull armor. Light curves like a bow.

We are arrows shot from night's grim hand. Tips of bright steel on smoke-feathered shafts.

Our flights surpass both latitude and longitude, their blue trajectories falling away beneath us.

We aim true. We know where the heart is and we call it home.

(From missed marks the trails run endless, fresh droppings of islands, blood spoor of cloud).

We are sped and suspended, floating and fleet.

The horizon quivers to rest behind us. The sun lays its swords at our feet.