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.