Yesterday, on my way from here-to-there, I saw a plane, cutting through the midsection of the sky like a knife to orange, hovering. Hummingbird, hummingbird, without speedy wings, where do you go when you're headed nowhere?
Planes are compelled to propel, forward, to rip the sky in some manner or other. Causing or closing rifts, (of spaces and peoples) but never have I seen one just BE. It was a plane hanging out, looking for a cigarette, pondering where it should go. It felt frozen in time, and my hot seat was the only thing that dispelled my notion that perhaps, indeed, I was as well.
When something simply hovers, the dark horse of indecisiveness seems to stampede by, leaving a sense of urgency about getting said idea or person or plane to land or simply fly away, already.
Photo courtesy of Li Wei.
No comments:
Post a Comment