Thunder Bay

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We come in from the south-east at five thousand feet,

the turboprops slow without warning, spinning idle, breathy,

and we just hang there,

My face, staring out, floats in space by my seat,

superimposed on endless lake, and blue-green forest, and rock.

Some lucky Norse warrior’s final view

(they call the hotel here the Valhalla.)

The little trolley bumps and rattles. There are cheerful, practiced apologies,

hands making a final collection of cookie wrappers, newspapers, plastic cups,

the fetching of two empty beer cans the young woman in torn jeans leaves on her tray.

She has passed out. Her cell phone blinking.

We drop toward landing.

I see spots that become boats on the azure water, white trails coming and going I know not where.

One of the cloud shadows, I see, is ours.

In my bag: notepad, Wanderlust, agenda, bills, chocolatines

all untouched.

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