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 the cedar bench on which I sit. I’m a seasoned warrior in the Million Mile Club which means my visits to the airport lounge are frequent and free. So what am I doing here? It’s not easy. I’ve been advised to find quiet time. I’m not about to quit, so I come here to turn the engines off and get the doctor’s prescription filled.

         This day, the sky is that grey that makes it seem low; a sound like rolling thunder passes overhead. A plane, unseen, rumbles through the clouds. On the street a scooter screeches by—louder than a murder of crows. The bench on which I sit, is dwarfed by a nearby stand of giant trees of differing species. All are old ones; maples, firs and elms; giant cedars and hemlock. There are several birch, and one ancient oak. Their falling leaves create a canvas of confetti in shades of persimmon, ochre, and buckwheat. Some have settled 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 of seasonal fatigue.

My friend Baxter likes to remind me, “There ain’t no easy road.” Well, it’s fine for him to say it. 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 like surprises or sudden ruts in the road. Baxter’s got that part right.

        Overhead another plane approaches, following the same path as the one before. This one is less noisy as it travels across the grey expanse of clouds. On this passage, there’s a high probability that one of the passengers on the plane will break his or her mileage record. Add a new member to the Million Mile club. Welcome sucker!

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

Amy Craig

2011

May your song always be sung.

            Voices, and laughing carrying through the air distract me. 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, another leaf floats down from the oak tree, dances in the air for a second, then disappears. The air, benign, touches the bare part of my head and the back of my neck. Like a whisper, it becomes part of the canvas; ground speckled by countless fallen leaves.

            High on a branch, hidden somewhere high above me, a crow calls insistently.

            Another plane flies over—this one is closer.