High above in the keen thinness of a January night,
a three-quarter moon glistens snow and ice.
A few high clouds—too thin to shroud the light—
stroke gentle texture between stars and frozen earth.

Shadows of a mammoth cottonwood
pattern the white blanket beneath the tree,
an interweaving of bending boughs
plowing their curves onto the hard-faced snow.

Looking back to the sky,
I see something I missed only a moment before:
a jet a few miles above the earth,
tracing its path just above the clouds.

At this angle under such a bright moon,
I can see not only the twin plumes of condensing vapor
stretching out toward Denver,
but even a hint of the shape of the plane.

Too high above the frame of the earth
for the sound to make itself known,
it is only by a chance glance toward heaven
that I happen to see this brief witness.

Clouds drift into the sifting night,
vapors disappear in the absorbing atmosphere,
the moon phases its way through Kansas winters,
and even this aching cold will pass in time.

But, at least for a while,
this memory of a moment
caught in unexpected light
will last beyond its passing.