The clear blue sky streaked with jet contrails, lines of pale vapour creating interlocking patterns as passengers are conveyed across vast distances, their purposes unknowable to the observer on the ground, the only evidence of their existence the trails, fingers pointing to some far off destination, the arrowhead shape indicating the direction. Sun glinting on the metallic fuselage of the jet, the comet at the head of a spreading tail. The trails merge, filtering the rays of the sun, reducing its power, blocking the ultraviolet warmth, returning the cosmic rays to space.
I remember a time, not so long ago, when volcanic ash replaced the trails, when the planes lay idle on the runways, grounded by natures fury, the Icelandic fires, when the sky was clear, the air was pure. I remember seeing the blue vault of the heavens as if for the first time, unsullied, unchained from these gauzy remnants, the sky my ancestors saw before the coming of the modern age. A sky not seen at any other time in my life. Those few days stay with me, and as I watch the skies fill each morning, the trails spreading like a blanket I wonder, just for a moment
“What have we done?”