The wing slices ninety degrees toward the water.
Sirens and great fear create electrical, spasmodic chaos.
Staying above the river, seeing each bubble of detail,
Pilot carves and furiously brings the plane level
In time to prevent melt-down with an old concrete bridge.
Today, the exact same feel, a gust of life with the look in the mirror.
Today, life might be a go, with brain suddenly light,
Doubt is ensconced. Search for work clothes begins.
Pilot loses the plane again, twisting,
Plunges into too-shallow icy water.
No survival this time.
That is the truth,
feeding on millions of replays.
But occasionally, there is an interruption, a tiny bubble,
A sprinkle of the stillness and weightless shivering of total joy.
stillfugue 