We are flying north, near six o’clock. I’ve got a window seat behind the angled wing. On the open fold table is my tiny cold press notebook the size of a small shower tile. Near six o’clock, a hazy yellow stripe meets the angled wing. Above is day blue.

A hazy yellow stripe, the wing outlined in light. Above is day blue and below I see lakes. Not on the ground in this clear air, no. It’s a mirage. The wing is outlined in light until the blue paints the top edge, and just below, I see lakes, and in front of me a placid wing.

I always find the smallest art supplies. A packet of colored pencils two inches high, each circumference a toothpick, and once, a set of pigments in an Altoids box. Quick sketches in place of writing add dimension. I look out the round square window. Until the blue paints the top edge, I think only sun erases lines, yet in front of me a placid wing could buoy boats, and house trout.

I think only sun erases lines and this bright hue that almost buoys boats and houses trout—don’t you see that water skier gearing up—is a scattering of sun’s light. This bright hue I’d like to paint, I see is scattering. I make a sketch of wing and sky unlike what I see; I’ll have to make some notes. Sun’s light is pale lavender above the wing. The tones of out and in are growing dark. Night flight. I see from my window seat pale lavender above the wing. We are flying north.

Amy Holman is a poet, literary consultant, and artist in Brooklyn, New York. Her most recent poetry collection is Captive (Saddle Road Press, 2023), and you can read two poems from it at the digital anthology Poets for Science.