The in-flight map says we’re over Winnetka, but the suburb looks the same,
and I get the same feeling: I could card my hands through tiny trees and puncture frozen ponds.
I want to trace the lines the farmers made. I want to work with my uncalloused hands.
If there is sadness here, it is stowed in the overhead compartment.
Arrogance peeks its blonde head through the cabin door. I pretend to look out the window.
Separated from Earth by a thin layer of vapor, these streets could belong to me.
James Bowie High School
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