Flight Pattern

A small ant scurries across a scrap of fake-blue plastic, a remnant from a yogurt container. The blue stands out among the other colors that surround my cedar bench. I am a seasoned warrior of the Million Mile Club, which means my visits to the airport lounge are frequent and free. But it’s not easy. I have been advised to find quiet time. I’m not about to quit, so I come here to turn the engines off and fill my prescription.

 This day, the sky is grey, a color that makes it seem low and some far distance away, I hear the sound of rolling thunder. A plane, unseen, rumbles through the clouds high above my head. On the street, a scooter screeches by—louder than the murder of crows. The bench is dwarfed by a nearby stand of giant trees of differing species. All are old ones; maples, firs, and elms; giant cedars and an ancient oak. Their falling leaves create an abundance of confetti in shades of persimmon, ochre, and buckwheat. Some settles on the grass near my feet. A few retain a faded hint of green, with center veins—sprawling dark lines—their edges laced with brown spots and seasonal fatigue.

I have a friend who likes to say, “There ain’t no easy road.” Well, it’s okay for him to say it. He has that part right. But he doesn’t have an oncologist telling him he needs to reduce his stress. When you’ve lived your life like a race car driver, you don’t want surprises, like ruts in the road that can leave you spinning out of control.  

            Overhead another plane approaches, following the same path as the one before. This one, less noisy as it travels across the grey expanse of clouds. In the first class cabin of that weighty bird, there’s a high probability that one of its passengers will break his or her mileage record and a new joins the Million Mile Club. 

On the ground in front of me, I notice the bronze plaque, a dedication embedded into a semi-circle of cold concrete. I stare.

Amy Craig

2011

May your song always be sung.

            Voices and laughing now carry through the air. There is a faint bass thump of rap music. They are the sounds of amusement, visitors ascending the stairs in the observatory nearby. Two feet in front of me, a leaf floats down from the oak tree, dances in the air for a second, then disappears. Like a whisper, it becomes part of the carpet, grass speckled by countless fallen leaves. The air, benign, touching the bare part of my head and the back of my neck.

  A bird sings insistently somewhere above the trees, and another plane flies over—this one, closer.