Landings

   by Leslie Clark


In the last minutes before landing
it seems like effortless gliding.  The engines hush
as the plane sails calmly toward its destination.
Then comes the annoying ping! as the pilot announces
final approach.  Soon after, the wheels clunk down
and the enormous winged machine loses its
already delicate balance in the insubstantial air.

As it lumbers toward the runway, there are enemies
in the atmosphere–turbulence bestowed by 
cloud layers, thermals produced by 
the surrounding mountains.  The plane
lurches from side to side, a drunken bear.
Elevates, then thunks down on air pockets.
I grip the arms of my seat, murmur an agnostic’s prayer
while my husband, the seasoned jet mechanic, dozes on
or continues to nonchalantly flip the pages
of the airline’s magazine. 				

Finally, after endless tilting to the left, then right
those wheels approach contact with the tarmac.
Most pilots seem to specialize in slamming that bad boy
on the ground, to a great creaking of joints and shifting
of luggage in overhead bins.  The P.A. crackles into life
as the attendant welcomes us to our destination,
wishes us a pleasant stay. My husband grins and says
“Well, we beat the odds again. Home again,
home again.”  And I wish
I could grow similar insouciance
for all of my landings.