An elevation added to a distance: If you raise a bright flag in your high window, I will haul up the signal of my finest vapors.
From here, I watch white planes arrowing down. From here, I fly my journey in reverse, rewrite a young friend's longing song, dwell in the tiny whiteness of birds on a river, the long shadow of a crane, the glittering of light on glass on water.
A white plane slips up into the white sky. This place's noise is a confused deafening. Even the sun making its cameo appearance does not change these colors from their browns, their fatigued palette of sands and stones. Tiny men walk atop tall buildings. No one seems to mind this smallness.
Now I know that I took that starling cloud for granted, trying to rewrite it in words that haven't been used yet: nothing could touch those five dimensions of its flight.
Oh, these glints are not my home. This open sky is not the one I would fall under. I have seen no grass in days. These are the wrong uncertainties.
I watch the planes, and I want return.
This will be more like it, if it hasn't vanished in my absence.
But this will do, sort of, for now.
Was I ungrateful before? Trees full of invisible starlings sang me on my way to dinner. I retract, but only a little.