Balloonist's Log, Final Entry

The field of our day lay ordinarily before us. Gravity and practice tethered our thoughts

to checklists. Helium swelled fabric beyond wrinkled rainbow to painted light-bulb. Up—

and foreheads; then hats and coiffures, quickly pigment on the landscape. Cheers littered the wind. We thought

we knew the limits. But late in the day the continent of air between field and cloud shrank to an urgent isthmus.

The causes were final and cited accurately. In the meantime, we bartered in good faith with Earth,

starting with sandbags, moving through provisions, ending with camera, compass, and hope. Rapid descent reduced the gondola and us to ballast.

By the time the trees and rocks were close enough to name, choice had changed to fate at a predictable rate.