across sorghum and furrowed paddock, flying
through cloud print or shadow rush, the ploughshare
wing that scythes and harries farmland, then banks
out over grey-blue ocean to hold above cloud;
the tables turned on day and night a traveller imagines
as either lost behind or forward ravelling distant.
Sometime later, campfire and tents, stamped as
hexagonals into darkness below that confines Istanbul -
are lights that phosphoresce out under the fuselage;
like the green tossed flickerings off the Red Sea
onto shores leading up to the Sinai desert where dawn
finds pale jade lozenges left out upon those sands.