What You Fly Over

The man beside me asked: is this home for you?

I looked out the window.

The fields were stripped to stubble,

the section roads running perfect right angles

in every direction

like someone had laid graph paper across the earth

and pressed hard.

I said yes.

He said oh, nice, and put his headphones on.

I kept watching.

The grain elevator's shadow stretched east

longer than the elevator,

longer than anything still standing.

I know those roads.

I know which light is the water tower.

I know the long dark gap

between the highway and the edge of town

that always felt like the town

being embarrassed about something.

The pause before I answered—

I keep coming back to that.

Not because the answer was wrong.

Because of how long it took

to get to yes.

The runway came up fast.

I watched it rise to meet us

and thought: accurate.

That's the word.

Not home, exactly.

Accurate.