Flying Home

Anxiety attack,

short of

breath, near tears, flying
from Pierre then

east from Denver as though

I'm really not supposed to be leaving

this place of wide open space.

In my mind's eye I picture

raising a gaggle of kids on a

ranch the size of the sky, miles

from the nearest gallery or ballet. Riding

for real, working

cattle, looking out over an ocean of fields.

This reality is so far from mine,

eastern liberal academic, recovering

vegetarian. And yet,

not as foreign as this ache feels.

A dream born of land

lust? A soul meant to be

cast open?

Rolling hills and run away.

Travel weary,

exhausted, vulnerable

to flights of fancy on

this flight home.

Ensconced now in walls of granite

Scrim of green and trees

Pressed in swaddled, now calm?