Landing

In winter,
because of the way the winds work,
planes fly right down my street
on their way into SFO.

I hear the whine of their engines
as they shift down into a slower gear,
and watch them bank to the right
over the lake,
a landmark for the pilots,
then drop altitude quickly
so they don’t overshoot.

It’s a mechanical miracle,
first getting that tonnage up in the air,
then getting it safely back down again.

But the people packed into that metal sausage
aren’t thinking about this.
They’re letting down their own landing gears,
closing trays, pulling their seats upright,
casting a glance at the overhead compartment
where their stuff is,
psyching themselves up for
who they will meet at the gate,
getting ready to put on a happy face,
or thinking about the meeting tomorrow
and how big the stakes are
and what if they blow it.

And I wonder,
as they nod goodbye, one after the other,
to the pilot standing in the door of the cockpit,
does anyone whisper a prayer of gratitude
for the Wright brothers
who made this junket possible,
crossing the continent, OMG, in five hours,
or for the guys who would have become famous inventing flight
if those two brothers had stuck to bicycles.