NEAR LOGAN, ONE WEEK AFTER Yesterday morning a plane was in the air. I'd missed it without thought, the mist Of smoke across the sky, the care Taken in its flight. Not hard to list, That day, the things I loved it for, Unnoticed nothings, always there: Airmail, normalcy, lack of war. Its path defined the high September air. Only a plane; as time goes on They'll fade to nothing once again: The steady presence every dawn, The hiss, the thin and doubled line. So still they blaze above us--wings, Screaming their homage to homely things.