The sky is pocked with parachutes
raining from the belly
of the plane,
the fat plane that dropped low
before your windshield
and now hovers
over the field like a cloud, like a ponderous
thought you could not have predicted.
Or is the sky lit
by a hundred little suns,
each one sinking to its own twilight?
This unremarkable air,
a threshold
you can’t imagine crossing.
Stop and pay attention, dreamer,
to the weather
and all that moves.
To timing and the necessity
of risk, to repetition
and the unrepeatable.
The sky of amber silk is falling.
