AIRPORT ROAD

Heart of the island, we
ride our old beater bikes
past birches lining the road
just to lie here in the meadow
and wait for the planes
to arrive. We are lost
in the blue, lake wind
blowing back our hair,
gossiping in the tall grass,
the wind sock floats
as casual as a whisper.
From the fields, ripe
hay rolls over us as
grasshoppers click and buzz.
Then we hear the the plane
approach, a lonely drone
as he circles the field,
steel dragonfly drifting
in slow circles, it's all
so narcotic!, so dizzy!,
the earth spinning, hay
and clover smelling of
mock orange and honey,
we're falling too deeply!,
and then the plane swoops
over the haystack, rumples
on the grass and surrenders.
We are passengers
waiting for our next flight
into oblivion, waiting
for the next moment
to come.