Arrivals

From where I sit in my after-dinner chair
as sunset dims into twilight,
I can watch airplanes approach
the end of their journey
from the west—
from Dallas
or Denver
or Los Angeles.
Their bright landing lights
cross the darkening sky,
winking in and out of sight
as they thread their way
among silhouettes of tree branches.
By the time one plane
passes overhead with a low hum,
another appears in the distance,
trailing the path of the first one.
Another plane follows.
And another.
Evenly spaced,
they glide smoothly on
like wandering stars.
When I first noticed them,
I thought they truly were stars.
But these stars that are not stars
are full of people
hurtling across the heavens.
These planes I watch,
these travelers
near the end of their journey,
are at the beginning as well.
For what is the end of the journey
but an arrival,
sometimes to a new place,
sometimes home to familiar comforts.
And I wonder:
When I get to the end
of that larger,
longer
journey,
will anyone be watching?
Will I appear as a bright star
slipping through
the night sky,
coming closer and closer?
I have a feeling that for me,
it will feel like coming home.