I hate when helicopters pass

too low overhead

And I am reminded

that I am here, in this place

Somewhere else

I think of things that have never been

that could never be

of you

of tea too bitterly made

of escapes unhatched

and half-thought out

of Spokane Indians

of quiet afternoons

in Nebraska

big skies

half sun-half rain

my life

half moon

well-travelled

wide-eyed

and

starry