Sitting still, waiting to descend 
just a layer of fogged glass 
keeping me from you.

Trees growing on your cheeks,
chin in your palm.
You’re frightened, I know.

Yet the sun splays on the dashboard and
you see the moose, as I do, swimming 
in the pond—black berries along its shore.

Soon, the plane kisses the ground.
Something has left you.

– Preston Eagan