In flight, to Chicago

He wakes half-asleep, half-dreaming, and
eyes glazed he gazes out unshaded windows
on broken clouds below:
"The plane is making its final descent."
Seatbelt lights flash on, and
he wonders how it would be if this
were the end of their descent -
that, eyes still shut, he would feel
the thud of the wheels hitting
runway, only looking out to see
houses still no bigger than thimbles,
the rivers still tributaries and
rain puddles, their lakes. And the
steps would be lowered and they
could all unfold themselves into
the winter air, setting foot on the
cold, sugar powdered, lilliputive
landscape, raising themselves to full
heights, god-like. Wading in clouds and
heads grazing the atmosphere.
He smiled in his sleep, realizing
that, for a time, their heads
really did graze the atmosphere,
riding above the clouds toward
Chicago - toward anywhere - in those
moments before the announcement,
"We're now beginning our descent,"
And the gods are sent to earth,
humbled by the fleeting proximity
to the literal heavens.

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