17
So we lurked there, under the flickering canopy
of oakleaves, on the Terrace. Suddenly Natasha
leapt to her feet. Come on, Hen! We’ve stashed
in this hutch long enough – look! The Gateway’s
waiting for us! She produces the frames again –
again, far out west, I spy the dazzling golden
bauble of that dome beside the river. Our own
homegrown Hagia Sophia... OK – climb on
into my Falcon Cloudvertible. We’re gonna zip.
I squeeze inside the ethereal airship. Call her
Spirit of St. Ella Chartwell – formal moniker,
anyway. Ella will do. Then we launch at a clip
& soar high into the sunbright blue! In no time
(literally) we’re hovering above the Mississippi,
the wide-open Gloriana of midwestern infinity
stretching every way below. Slow pantomime,
a parade of ships! Airboats, barges, carracks &
canoes; dhows, elf-coracles, fly-boats; gondolas &
garbage scows; hydrofoils, inflatables; junks, lighters,
motorboats; Nordlands, outriggers, punts & rafts –
sloops, towboats... umiaks... Very Slender Vessels;
wakas, water taxis... yachts & yawls... Z-boats!
My eyes went wide. This darting intensity – gnats
on a drowsy serpent, faring upstream, down... swells
from one subterranean, Uranian source. Springs
from Alph to Ocean River, round & through us,
all-engulfing; flows to one fiord we each must
cross at last. Clear Jordan... brook of winnowing.
6.3.12
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