I am struck again
by the world as it looks
from 36,000 feet –

a land folding into itself
and falling asleep,

the irregular squares and
rectangles of farms,
a patchwork of purples and
blues in the hush of dusk,

the horizon, a thick smear
of oranges and yellows,
like the crack of hall light
before the bedroom door closes –

the whole world hushed
the whole world slow

There is not even a you
or a me or a them
from these altitudes,
only an us,
bound and belonging
to the fields and farms below.