looking out a window
on a quiet bus
or in the twilight above the clouds,
a plane’s blinking wing light marking the space between my sprawling thoughts.
It’s akin to breathing in the first aroma of steaming coffee,
or slipping into dry clothes after being soaked to the bone.
It’s the security of a changing road
and passing clouds as you hurtle forward through the air.
Some find freedom on firm ground, earth rooting around their toes.
I feel mine wrapping around me in the distance between places.
The lengths between what is and what could be —
that certain stillness only reachable in the movement.