A plane approaches,
Beeping red,
Silent only for short notice,

With small windows of peripheral vision,
Passengers sit blind,
Imagining what lies ahead,

The pilot tips the flock,
“Prepare for takeoff,”
The wheels murmur,
Lines lose their dots,

Up and away,
Airport candlesticks bristle below,
Terra firma is no more.

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By Wells Baum

Wells Baum is a daily blogger who writes about Life & Arts. He's also the author of and four books.