two states south toward home,
solo this time, I anchor myself
to the window of the flying

capsule with wings, lean my
head against the too-hot
window, fascinated all over

again—as I was when I first
flew as a child—by creamy
columns of clouds beneath me

fluffing thousands of feet tall.
And I wonder again if clouds truly
take on three-dimensional shapes,

or is that an illusion I recall,
really not knowing clouds at all?
And then the song’s in my head,

so I hum as, 30,000 feet below,
squiggles of water flash like silver
ribbons over the mirage of earth,

as gingham checks of cropland grow.
And yes, the brilliantly white
cumulus congestus towers might

well contain thunder, but those
ice cream castles in the air still
and always from up here on high

look good enough to eat.