Perfect Landings

They paid us visits for days
Decked out only in feathers,
Poised on their infamous legs,
Dining out regardless of weather.

At first they seemed much the same -
Then we discerned dove, shrike and bunting.
Soon we gave some of them names
And puzzled over the thing that's called hunting.

Each pedigree is always clearly defined:
Either it's one kind of bird or it's not.
Not like wondering if one's bloodlines
Are mostly German, Israeli, or Scot.

What a very serendipitous thing:
To fete intense little guests with wings.

(Honorable Mention - 1994 Robert Ruark Awards)

Enjoy Your Flight

Around me people read and chat
Seemingly oblivious to the fact
That we're flying through the sky,
A situation odder than a fish walking by.

Gazing at my glistening palms
I long for insensitivity, that balm.
Where's my faith? Fifty lashes!
The little engine that crashes?

I'm aware of every sound
A mile above the ground
Pulling up wheels, moving the flaps,
It all sounds to me like aero-mishaps:

What I thought was steel coming apart
Was the stewardess jostling the beverage cart?
What seemed to be an explosion on board
Was someone slamming the bathroom door.

The steward smiles, but seems bored
(Could it be he has a ripcord?)
Did I imagine that he smirked as I feared aloud
When we careened through a cumulonimbus cloud?

And that pilot who speaks through the static and din
Does he seem too old, too young - yesterday did he sin?
I lean to the left as he banks to the right
He levels out, I rear back - check his sight!

A drink, conversation, a snack? Not me.
All my attention must obviously be
Riveted to the worries, stresses, and cares
Of keeping this fifty ton bus in the air.