Troposphere

Up!
Keep up!
The suited race to make progress—
their days of action crammed into silver cattle tubes
measuring collections, treasuring the seeing of it first
(so it can be told to those who weren’t there
     in the air)
Keep up, they cry!

Some see past the mirrored wings
through the contrails of
hot air and noise
and wait for Hamlet’s clouds,
those beyond measure, just meaning
to be.

They live in days where time still walks,
their backs pressed into the grass of the season
just watching
as the evening paints its pink fuzziness on the horizon
and the last of the day’s light flames and dies
and they think to themselves:
the clearest view is from the ground.
Up.