Rarely can I recall a takeoff.
This time my head bobbed – I assume –
bumping slightly off the white plastic wall
and window frame until a flat pace came.
Alberta was warm that October – the prairies
divided into buttery cake tops, flat flaxen
squares cut into neat singulars.
A quick glance, a mind may think desert
The pockets of trees, their tops stone green
from above they were nearly boulders stacked
and tired, forever mounted.
It was the rivers that kept me grounded
Permanent lightning strikes – not actually blue
but magpie – if it were a color – etched
in prairie grass. Curves, angles that answer
to no one.
Dazed from travel sleep, my eyes followed a river
needled into a lake whose border shaped
into a racing dinosaur: an admiral tail, short quirked arms
outstretched and reaching for a rabbit-pond, and
a nose rounded like a boot.
A child’s drawing.
Sporadic but intent on a life as real to them
as something never seen.
The lines below confident, crucial in their drunken shapes.
Sean Devlin is currently working in higher education with the desire to be a high school English teacher in the near future. He is a graduate of Northland College and shortly after earned an MA in creative writing from the University of Limerick. It depends on the day which he wants to write, fiction or poetry. His work has appeared in The Cardiff Review. He lives in Milwaukee and is from Pennsylvania.