There is a plane at the end of the road on a planet. I found it by driving as far as possible. I drove undeterred towards the bushes. I followed the path to an opening. I parked in the opening. I pointed towards the water. I watch the silent traffic on the bridge. Palm trees with wild hair watch the water and the traffic. The big flat plain of water is a hole in the land, a dip in the high frequency, a pending project, an ignored part, ear-marked but forgotten. Jets poke into the sky above from the far side of the clouds, whine, then leave, behind me, and the air is quiet again. Tall brown grass flutters in the water. The white sunlight is comprehensive. The clouds and the blue of the sky cup the flat world. I am trapped under a bowl of infinite perimeter. There are many distractions in the bowl. A jet pushes through the clouds, approaches me, flies over me, leaves me, lands.