Car on the road starts a low rumble,
Becoming louder, surer,
Steady roar, crunching gravel.
Then trailing off into the distance.
A Cessna is a giant mosquito
Pulling whiney pistons across the sky.
Always a movement of air,
If not wind,
A crepuscular ticking,
A settling of poured liquid.
There is no bottom to emptiness,
It goes on forever.
It’s not scary, not nihilistic.
When Al opens the door,
There he is, his big, red face, laughing.