Odd that I’d remember flying alone under a summer ceiling of benign cumulus as a silent time. There was always the snarl of the old Lycoming that made talk impossible, even if there’d been someone else along. Below, a stitched and measured Midwest world tilted when I banked, fell away in a climb. I was a kitten on🔒

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Marydale Stewart lives in Spring Valley, Ill.

Posted in: December 2015: Economic Justice and Poverty, Poetry

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