Takeoff
by Timothy Steele
Our jet storms down the runway, tilts up, lifts:
We're airborne, and each second we see more-
Outlying hangars, wetlands with a pond
That flashes like sheened silver and, beyond
An estuary and the frozen drifts
Of breakers wide and while along a shore
One watches, cheek in palm. How little wight
The world has as it swiftly drops away
How quietly the mind climbs to this height
As now, the seat-belt signed turned off, a flight
Attendant rises to negotiate
The steep aisle to a curtained service bay.
