Dream of the Plane #8

There I was on the tarmac, bags bursting 
at my feet, listening to the bloated blowhard
of a captain tell us we were grounded for good.
Out the window, the shimmering hills pulsed
with coyotes and the civil twilight sky highlighted
the California highways that roped like king
snakes draped among the cacti. I sent you
a message siting the mad engine malfunction 
and how Buenos Aires was now a no go.
"At least we can head back to California,"
I wrote, but you were already flying first 
class to somewhere else fantastic.