Welcome to Flyover Country, the vast and delicious expanse between the coasts. Here is where I work and travel, writing about the ordinary, knowing that it is really extraordinary. Nonstop flights from New York to Los Angeles constantly fly over us:
Silver wings and contrails paint names
Across our sky,
They fly from coast to coast.
Quick gaze at our patchwork land
Once white and black, then green and blue
Glide through, enroute.
Little glance from laptop light
To silent scenes below
They come and in a cutting shard they go.
Yet our fathers left us here
To work the space and
Pump the bounty to the coasts,
And keep the secrets of the land.
We stand, look up, wonder where they go,
Thank God they mostly do.
Excerpt from Flyover Seasons
(North Star Press 2012)
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