Trails in the sky
Twelve plumes scrape the early sky
A dozen airplanes heading south
Sleeping passengers unaware
As they destroy God’s morning canvas
Pristine planet ravaged
But they only seek pleasure.
It’s six thirty a.m.
The most precious time
Another half hour
Til the sun shows it’s head.
The sky in the east
Lights up with bright colors
Yellow and blue and red.
The birds are wading in the low water
As the tide leaves the beach high and dry
While up in the heavens
The airplanes are crossing
Heading south for good weather
But they might as well stay
Twelve plumes have I counted
Criss crossing the heavens
It seems such a lot - just after Covid.
The early flights on their way
To France and to Spain
Sleeping tourists fleeing the rain.
The sun makes a showing
Appearing so slowly
Lighting the sky in the East
Exiling the faint colors
That signaled dawn was coming
Thirty minutes ago.
The magic recedes
A new day takes over
Commerce will have its pound of flesh
Tourism will eat its own
Easter Island leaves us a message
In exotic sculptures of silent stone.
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