At first, it was very hard to tell they were planes. They could
have easily been birds — the murder
of crows that carved out its own corner of Central Park.
I don’t know that anyone really thought
they are birds, but we certainly didn’t think they were planes.
Sunlight off their metal wings was surely a reflection
off the windowsills. Rumbling from their heavy engines was
the construction on Church Street.
When the nose shattered the glass, we thought that somehow
some kid must have thrown a rock through the window,
28 floors up.
When we into free fall with the buckling steel
and concrete, our bodies like silly marionettes,
it felt like the moment just before waking, sweaty, from an uncomfortable
Televisions cracked to life, left on for days.
A nation of ten million sleeps on.