Flying the Saab 340     

            Eugene, Portland, Salt Lake City,
            Dallas. Across America
            in a shoal of travelers, she drowns
            conversation, ducks a sermon
            from the deacon in row seventeen,

            stays afloat alone until
            the stranger's question,  "What's that
            water?" floats by while she's immersed
            in the flat azure plate of Lake
            Ray Hubbard, dusty blue under the wing.

            Almost home she's caught citing
            statistics: latitude, longitude, the best sailing
            channels, particulars of Texas
            weather.   The salt words
            wet her mouth, she longs to share

            them, wants to tell him everything:
            how bass flicker in the submerged weeds,
            how a cat's paw wind can ruffle the water,
            how far they could sail in a morning
            without turning back.


            Wendy Carlisle  (Click for bio.)


      


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