by the late Milt Huntington
Jet planes streaking through the sky
Leave their contrails there to die.
We who watch them from below
Can only wonder where they go.
We hear their disappearing sound
As it echoes dimly to the ground.
From west to east and east to west
They travel headlong to their nest.
Birds of silver, birds of white
Travel swiftly day and night.
Like an arrow through the blue
They fly away from me and you.
We can only watch and say:
“They’ll be back another day.”
When they land, we’ll be right here
To see the contrails reappear.