flying through Denver 
in early December 
bound for Portland town...
feels like the first line 
of a bad country song

loading up in Des Moines
with bewildered old people
trying to find their place 
while their children lose 
their patience with them 
and crying babies

two weeks in the barn 
and back in the sky 
as we de-ice 
and live the mariner’s 
ancient rhyme, again.

DSM 2018