The Creative Corner
Contrails
They crisscross the heavens, long silk threads of whiteSpun in the bowels of jet engines, of sleek planes in flightLike woven strands of white twine, they cling high in the airI often look up and gaze, in awe and just stareFrom behind the wings, those thin white billows pourHigh in the blue yonder, see those Silver Birds soarLike old wagon wheel ruts, they mark up the blue skyAnd were never before seen, until man learned to flyThese trails in the sky, minute crystals of icePasted onto the blue, with no pattern preciseWhite lines twisted and curved, some long and narrowAre carved into the heavens, some straight as an arrowLines soft, puffy, and fluffy, gently drift to and froThey float to the horizon, I know not where they goThe sky starts to heal, marks of chalk dissipateThe heaven is for sure, one big self cleaning slateThey fade, then vanish, the sky is swept clean and blueErased from the heavens, there's left not a clueBut I know on the morrow, with the morning sunriseI'll again see white silk twines, lace up the skiesArley M. Bischoff
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