Daniel B. Silver



  There’s jet contrail skywriting far above the mountain
Ten thousand feet of slumbering volcano, long gone to rest
A straight line of vapor following an unseen plane
A metal tube of wary travelers continuing west

It’s so high up, there’s no way it’s landing on this island
In the middle of the Pacific, so isolated from the continental US
Right now, I know someone in a window seat is looking down with interest
Making a mental note to fly here; wondering which island is best

On the ground I’m sipping coffee looking back at the plane
In 21A a passenger is probably being served a drink
And regardless of the several miles of airspace in between
It seems you’re never alone – despite what you might think