Twelve plumes

 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.