The buzz and hum
of rising, throttle,
instruments, and look:
our house, our town,
the lighthouse perched,
slender scratches
of meadow, the blur
of the city and north,
the ridges and ridges,
the aerial hum of propellers, and I remember
what happened. See that. Even the Devil
looks small from the sky: his red hat,
his tiny dark boat, sliver of stick
pushing down a delicate floss of river.