High-sky morning
like beach walks in cool sand
feathered clouds
and I try to remember
if plane trials always lingered like this
when I was a child

or if they disolved
into the blue
between thumb and index finger
measuring twin lines in units small enough
for a child’s eyes and a child’s mind
and I remember
containing those lines
in the capital C of my hand
squinting at the vastness of the sky

Before taking the children out, I crouch down by the window to spy the lingering lines that have become second nature to our eyes. Ears perked like a pointer, or a bomb shelter watchman underseige, and a plane motor rises from the east. Back bent with suspicious eyes, and I decide to keep the kids inside, despite the pale warmth of this high-sky morning. We play a game. We watch a show. I slip garlic into their snacks, hoping to stop the growth of microbes, and wonder how to tell everyone I know. Chicken little me and the sky is falling.