Low and Slow

Asleep along the flight lanes
of Baltimore Washington International,
I jump awake on hot summer nights,
skin drenched in sweat,
sheets peeled back,
heart pounding.

By the time I sit up,
all three hundred tons blur overhead,
wingtips winking,
the pitch of two huge engines sinking.

Some behemoths lumber
low and slow,
skimming so near the roof
their strobes flash
the windowsill with lightning.

Amid the roar of combustion
whistle spinning fans;
hydraulic compressors buzz and whir
louder than the crickets.
Beneath it all, a deep-throated hum
rises, falls in rhythm with my pulse.

Any lower and I'd hear
the pilots talking,
taste the salt of airline peanuts,
smell balloon tires
poised to paint the tarmac black.

Scott Speck
07/25/2002