People who live settled lives seldom see jet trails. I mean, I guess they see them every day but they don’t see them the way the nomads do.

I remember in the morning on the mountain behind my mother’s house, watching the sun rise and then, beyond the red bark of the smooth arbutus, a double string streaking across the sky, going south.

Later, in Austin, seeing the trails lose their geometry and blow into feather boas, spread on the Texan breeze, my boyfriend said oh, “they’re just contrails” when I asked if he ever thought about them ribboning the sky.

And then, watching them arc across the western horizon as the sun set, standing on the big brick porch that surrounded our front door and wondering if I’d ever fly again, house bound, Covid cautious.

Now, I see the silver arrows, pulling their long white threads behind them as they plunge toward their targets, and I smile. Not long now. Not very long at all.