In the evening I sit out on the back porch watching the lit up flight pattern of the planes coming in for landing. They come right at me like a surging highway. I wear my binoculars. Sometimes I even make signs. WELCOME TO EARTH, said one of these signs. I mowed it into the grass with forty-foot letters.

I can do whatever I want with the field.

And as the lights pass over me and my house I see the planes blink in acknowledgment. The windows flash with heads and hands. You, way up there, you know me and understand.

 

 

Photo by Asher Isbrucker

Kyle Mellen

KYLE MELLEN grew up in Massachusetts and lives in Fairbanks, Alaska. His recent stories appear in Epoch, The Georgia Review, The Gettysburg Review, and Mid-American Review. In 2012 he received the Sherwood Anderson Fiction Award, and in 2011 his book manuscript was a finalist for the Flannery O’Connor Award.

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