The grind of flying is like wearing shoes with
frayed laces in a crowd -
everything is about to fall apart and you
are about to be trampled by indifferent strangers.
Flying happens in a crowd and no one is present -
you are an obstacle to their destination -
and so trampling is done with indifference.
I think of Leonardo in an unheated studio
sketching by candlelight
on a sheet of paper that cost more
than a peasant's dinner -
he draws first in the free space of the mind
before dipping the quill he sharpened this morning
in the bowl of squid ink he bought from a trader
from Pisa last Tuesday.
He has the idea of flying machines in his eye
before he begins scratching out
a bicycle that has wings that beat
with each rotation of the pedals -
or a corkscrew sail
that turns the wind like a water mill.
What joy would be express
even on the taxi from the gate
his seatbelt secured over his robes
and his satchel of parmigiana and prosciutto
stored beneath the seat in front of him.
He would have his face pressed to the window
as the ground moved faster than any horse
he could have drawn -
flanks sweating and feet pounding -
then the wheels would lift
and the ground would fall away -
He would be speechless
as he saw the world as the birds he drew
and dissected -
and as he passed into the belly of a cloud
he would believe he could feel
the presence of God, so long doubted,
wrapping around him.
He would look to his passengers for fellow feeling -
to see who was likewise transfixed and transformed
by the certain presence of angels
only to find them
flipping through inflight magazines
or downing tiny bottles of whisky
or watching videos on their phones.
