having had a wonderful winter in the wild
and wooly west they wanted to fly out of
phoenix like the bird rising, but they had
to grit their teeth, clinch their jaws and
crawl out of town like a turkey in traffic
(which they actually saw later in Santa Rosa)
during rush hour with about five hundred
miles to go before they slept. finally, they
glided up 87 perching in payson, stopping
for a pit-stop at mcdonald’s and noticing
a lot of really, old people limping to and
from their cars — snow-headed snow-birds,
slow, low flying cranes heading home, clogg-
ing lanes, and making drivers pray passionate-
ly for passing zones. locals bowed in gratitude.
the mountain air cleared the ashes like ozone
from valley lungs. they moved so slow through
show low behind minnesota and south dakota
they thought they might drift back down into
the soon to-be furnace below but hit their
stride on 60 through new mexico. the road
leveled, the traffic thinned like an anorexic
valley girl and they drove east peacefully on
their own lonesome road as the sun set serenely
on their wings — nirvana, valhalla, a heavenly
airborne load.