Dec. 21, 1992


We took off at four forty-five
and sailed past the setting sun
like some bad spaghetti western --
all guts, no glory. We lifted,
shifted and rolled, as golden
filaments of swift wind lit
our round windows
and the buildings below
became boxcars in a child's model
railway. Banking, squares of
light moved up the cabin
and obscured the no-smoking
signs. Snow-covered mountains
so unlike the Southern
California of waving palms
saw us off. "Go
home," they said, "to warm
fires, white Christmases and ice-
tipped fingers. You'll never even know
you missed us."

 © Jessica Minier Mabe