Contrails Clones of cirrus—artificial-- pointing—flaring—‘cross the sky Bred in earth’s deep inner-belly—not to be ‘til man could fly. “Crude” you were in the beginning so unlike what you became- “Refined” at first, but still unready, called by now, some other name. Burned by engines, were your brothers, as they lifted you on high, Not ‘til many things in order--- would your presence greet the eye. Chill of height, and trace of water— need these two for you to grow- Timing now is all-important— to convert—to make your show. “Change of state” is what they call it—those who speak as if they know, Ice-cold liquid—glowing vapor---microseconds- in the flow. From the process gas and water—spewed behind and left to chance— Frozen now by nature’s ice-box—to become your dying dance. Time once was when you were hated—gave away the bombers flight— Now you mostly speak of travel—foretell weather from your sight. Questions—questions---some are raising-- is there something else you do? Do you alter weather patterns?—Refract the rays the sun sends through? Well for me—I’ll just observe you-- from my watch-site-- far below, And envy those who cause and use you-- destinations where they go. Bill Woodall