Silence ringing,
the crunch of gravel bites the air.
I hear the hum
of a little light bulb,
whose job is to illuminate the world
from underneath a wing.
How many of these wings
is a parent
or a child
who was on the plane?

My gaze focuses
not upon the Pentagon’s facade,
lighter on impact;
not upon the plaque
that reads the names of death,
but upon a single wing.
It spreads from the ground,
stretching toward the sky,
humming and glowing with that
little light bulb.