I am in the window seat of the small plane
that is in descent
to the eastern part of the state
I still call home.
As I peer through the
smudgy clouded scratched glass,
at how my body
of this place.
so much room
so much land
measured in quartered fields
and tiny rivers
and straight roads
that roll out forever...
a patchwork from the sky.
I know this rolling blue sky.
I know this green grass and yellow-bright fields of canola
resting next to green fields of potatoes or sugar beets or
some kind of grain, it doesn't matter.
I know this wind, hot and dryly humid.
But the best thing is,
this vast and rolling place
my ancient childhood
is renewed in good and solid ways.