What time is it?
We should be fine,
on time in Nashville.
Muted colors and eyes
heavy, wander in
blind monotone, sing
to waving adolescents.

The light turns orange
with age before brightening
morning sky, the flood
on the tarmac transitions
to scattered blue as seconds
creep closer to the dawn.

Arched window voice in
rolling fields with fences
cry out like grass seed sneezes
from rainy Octobers and Julys.