the sun slips
minute by minute
beneath a line of firs
leaving rust
to burn the edges of night.
pewter clouds mirror
the lake’s opaque
surface.
by now her flight
is hours away.
from thirty five thousand feet
all she’ll see
are rows of cornfields
watered by pumps
draining the aquifer
dry.
crickets by the shore
interrupt my stale
thoughts
stuffed with words
unspoken as it was time
for her to go.
it’s just as well,
i suppose.
as darkness closes in
i look skyward
and pray
for a sign.
i don’t know why
most endings
come all-of-a-sudden
into our lives.
