J.B. Mulligan

Taken for granted: a plane: thin, high, distant, silver. Noticed, then forgotten, like a breath. Or not noticed, part of an empty sky over empty scurrying, or dull, purposed, hungering endeavor. Who thinks of the dreamers, drawers, builders and early fliers? Da Vinci, the Wrights, von Richtoven? Who thinks of the mechanics, the workers in

Leaves of the previous autumn are mulch between the trees, the speckled skin of a leopard stretching up the hill to the charcoal rocks, slick and jumbled, and the setting sun. Beyond the rocks, I see an off-white building with a red roof and a sign too far away to read, and I know a