How inconsiderate of that plane,
Surely in the air for much longer than I’ve been sat here,
To interrupt the dusk of musical mirth and majesty,
Though I am just one of what has to be thousands,
To come listen to Yoyo Ma,
Or Bach,
Depending on your view,
And just one of hundred to picnic on the open air amphitheater lawn,
It does not feel as if it is just I,
For the phone, child, cough, crinkle, always remind me that it is not,
It seems we are simply here to chance a view into the earth’s song of love to the sky,
And the sky paints in ample gradient blue peach white,
The infinite intricate care and joy it feels,
To chance a glance upon the ground