At this altitude, ascending and moments later,
smooth as butter, another community folds beneath an
undulating, perfectly focused chessboard of canola, across sorghum and furrowed paddock, flying
through cloud print or shadow rush, the ploughshare
wing that scythes and harries farmland, then banksout over grey-blue ocean to hold above cloud;
the tables turned on day and night a traveller imagines
as either lost behind or forward ravelling distant.Sometime later, campfire and tents, stamped as
hexagonals into darkness below that confines Istanbul -
are lights that phosphoresce out under the fuselage;like the green tossed flickerings off the Red Sea
onto shores leading up to the Sinai desert where dawn
finds pale jade lozenges left out upon those sands.


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