The Altitude

Sun at rest on the mountain faces—

I see it from my window seat,
the mountain rippling under wing,
my dad beside me 
recalling a double-decker freeway I drew
in charcoal when I was six
after it collapsed a few blocks away
in the great quake
crushing trees cars people, a drawing
as though to signal
the beautiful may be beautiful 
by its force of opposition 
to what happens.

And then it’s hours later
and we’re coasting—my dad and I—
near the midnight of years
from the airport to the farm
on a two-lane starless 
prairie night empty and full.