The little towns in their squares light up, as do the scattered lights of farmyards in the tilting, fuzzy squares they’re locked in. I balance a Chilian red on a bumpy flight out to one of those squares. The West is red too, after we bump to a cruising altitude through clouds threatening snow. I’ve been here before, but not in this sundown; in these clouds; drinking this wine; in the lines of this poem. Somewhere... Read more