We talked as if we didn’t know, or, what is worse, as if we did. Even truth tires of its own expression. Flight is real. The wing carries us. But the eye testifies only to the arc, and a sky too blue to understand. Put simply, nothing is. Still, the eye sees, insists on flight, and a reason for sky. We talked of love, of the heart’s thin atmosphere, and the dangers of flying. Our eyes met, leaped the gap. Nothing was between us, and we knew it, folded it to ourselves like a wing curved to empty space.