from above, the cities are islands on the land

and the land shudders small against crumbling

salt-edged out the shift of shorelines. here, now,

the complicated construct of building reduces

to green and light on light on dark, green

cities, night-vision fording the earth like a

small stream back home in the familiar woods

he banks in, clouds like playful children, but

there is no laughter in this thin air,

there is silence and the radio hum of

interconnection and the lights of design that

echo all those green below and once

when he was young he stood on a rise of land

and watched the jets take off from the forever-run

of burning concrete, and he traced their arc with

his small fingers against the white white sky