They are thigh to thigh in the narrow seat,
dipping, turning
on insubstantial air.
The pilot wonders if they’d like to do a loop.
He wants to answer yes, but he asks her first.
She’s afraid, so he tells the pilot no.

They are in love. Or she is in love.
It’s too soon.
He’s too young.
She is in love with his arm 
around her shoulders.
It’s been so long. 

Or in love with the curly crowd of blond hairs
glistening on his brown forearm, 
muscled from hammer and saw,
with the smile in his voice on the phone.
But up here, floating 
with the raptors, who can tell?

They don’t talk, sitting so close,
looking down at vineyards, 
barns, canopied oaks
spread out like illustrations in a children’s book. 
The glider rattles.
But she doesn’t hear.

She’s thinking she wouldn’t mind 
if he kissed her.
But it’s too soon 
after her husband’s death.
He was too young to die,
and she’s old enough to know better.
Isn’t she?
She’s probably just 
a little giddy
up here,
so far above the earth.