Starting on the West Coast

we are packed into our seats,  squinting out Bright windows

 

When we land a thousand miles East 

it is six adjusted hours later,  pitch dark  

 

Planes make these trips hundreds of times a day 

Upstream against the current,  rising toward a setting sun   

 

Tomorrow I will begin and end my day in a single place

a few steps inside a single day, skipping no hours at all 

 

 

 

 

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