we live near the airport by Julie Allyn Johnson

we live near the airport

Julie Allyn Johnson

a third plane flies low overhead,
the winds dictating today’s particular flight path.
their underbellies all look the same to me.
I’ve no idea their altitude, jet speed or destination.

I wish I better understood meteorology.
I’ve yet to grasp the difference between
nimbus and cirrus and altocumulus
though I pride myself on my ability to call out
a mammatus gathering when I see one.

car or truck, bus or plane—with any mode of travel
I ponder the adventurers tucked inside.
where are they headed?  did they eat a healthy breakfast
is anyone ignoring obvious signs of cancer or diabetes
how many cringe with self-examination on a daily basis?

I wonder if any of these wanderers,
like me, are thinking right now
about the choices they’ve made,
the regrets they nurture, the joys they embrace?

with yet another fly-over
I sense the winds have changed direction.
peering into the clouds
I imagine a friendly face at the window
one nudging me to just get on with my life.

About the Author

Julie Allyn Johnson is a sawyer’s daughter from the American Midwest whose current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry can be found in Star*Line, The Briar Cliff Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Lyrical Iowa, Cream Scene Carnival, Coffin Bell, The Lake, Haikuniverse, Chestnut Review, and other journals.