Long Imaginationgrandmother Poems

Contrails In the Sky

There's not a cloud in the pristine Colorado sky,
But for a myriad of feathery contrails left by airplanes flying high.
I wonder from whence they came and what are their destinations,
As they form arrow-straight patterns of many variations.

They're probably having lunch now, the proverbial pretzels and coke,
The pilot ever alert with steady hands upon the yoke.
What a view that must be from thirty-thousand feet,
Especially for those lucky folks who have a window seat!

What dramas, I muse, are being played out among those aboard.
Some read, others snooze, others keep glazed-eyed seat mates bored!
Harried moms trying to keep their kids from going berserk;
Stressed-out business travelers poring over reams of paper work!

A lonely soldier at a window seat stares dolefully out in to space,
Holding in his heart the memory of his sweetheart's last embrace.
A newly minted grandmother whose face is just a-beaming,
Going to see the new-born babe for whom she has been dreaming!

With clenched white knuckles, tense first-time flyers abound.
A newly-wed pair exchange a kiss, not caring who's around!
The silvery jet speeds upon its way, the contrails dissipate,
With travelers anticipating joyous reunions awaiting them at the gate!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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