looking perchance to see out beyond the wing,
another plane as it sped through turbulence across the Eastern European sky.
and considering the distance we traveled, how close we came to touching over the clouds.
as if reaching out we may brush finger tips or absentmindedly we might collide shuffling off the awkwardness of fire and death to realize how lucky we were to be in the same bit of air.
and though seeing you pass at hundreds of miles per hour leaves the question of our destruction longing in each other's hearts, the fields of Europe are safe from our falling wreckage.
crops not spoiled by debris and bodies.
yet how lovely the sky would have looked for that moment
and how the smoke would have stood out among the clouds and the memories
of those on the ground who watched, made calls, and gasped.