Quarter-Life Poems: Flying North

Flying North

I board an airplane in California
around me strangers stir-
fumble with their seat belts
rummage through their carry-ons
The experienced travelers are already snoring
before the plane even takes off.

The voice of the pilot
crackles over the loud speaker
warning of turbulence
He has the voice a pilot should have
stern but soothing
slightly gruff
like his wind pipes are filled with indentations

The shake of a plane
still send sweat sliding down my forehead
my hands like merciless talons
grip the armrests

I imagine the pilot and his crew are friends
together they watch the world change
in a way few people experience
trees disappear and buildings emerge
under the constant shift of clouds

Behind me, a baby cries
across the plane, another baby responds
in a gentle rolling sob.
They  are not really unhappy
they are talking to each other
in the only language they understand.

Below me,
I watch as farmlands
blend into forests
until I can see mountain tops
poke through low hanging clouds.

Soon we will land
descending through murky gray clouds
until we gently bump against the runway
and rattle to a stop.

Outside, the world will dimly glisten
under the low Autumn sunlight
and the gloomy gloss of rain.