The Smallest Airport in the World|
Long green line beneath the gray, and clover for cover. Three, three, three and
no luck for the last one out. Green surrounds the tarmac. Only recently green.
Before that, frozen ground and old snow, corrugated, wind-wrought into channels
and shadows. On the verge, green guiding lights, mounted high above winterís sad
story. Said story. Unsaid story. Three, three, three. Green from the German,
meaning ďall is not lostĒ. Like that light on the horns of cattle possessed. Or
perhaps, just prescient. No green without gospel, without warning, just red to
green, unlike the way that amber coos and negotiates, its green part teething.
Green is not coming. Green is going, delayed. As the only stewardess in this
small plane advises us to bow our head against the green seat before us. But
mine is now cocked, drawn to the gallows of a tower with green windows and wind
socks. We await its guidance, we have no direction yet, grounded between the
clover and the new prairie grass. Three, three, three. And the air becomes thin.