Sunday over France
by Michael Macklin
In 1926 the flight from Paris to New York
was seventeen hours.
Passengers sat in graceful wicker
trying to converse above the howl of tri–motors.
There was some concern
that too much weight on the port side
might shift the aircraft southward
missing Coney Island
until low on fuel
and fearing the worst
our young pilot
set us down
on a beach
whose only source of light
was the new moon and a lamp
in a fisherman’s window.
We disembarked barefoot
among blue parrots and stars
and began to walk the long curve of sand.
No one missed New York
now that its clatter was lost
in the jungle,
the world without engine noise
filled with the singing of stars and waves
and our hearts with the sweetening silence.