Love Field
DAVID RODERICK

First, a black mark in the sky,                 a speck that grows into a plane widening,                 dramatically circling before it touches                 a gray strip of land designed for its landing. Then the players descend                 the wheeled stair to the stage                  for the cameras, our collective eye:                 first her, then him, as is custom,                 and their entourage trailing behind,                 those who believe the world is young                 and the future spreads out like geography. It's the beginning                 of all that,                 and what a show it is, the bouquet of roses             we see given to her on the scratchy screen, the film pouring its light,                 edges burned. And who knows what's truth,                what's myth, or if they arrive                 as hawks or doves, brave with risk                 in a bright and swirling land where the dust seems to crown                from its own gray dust. Here's the raw footage.         Here's the film clicking in the projector, and, as all things seen                 through it                 are black and white, isn't it important to note                 her roses are red and not yellow,                 and that neither of them squints in the bright Texas sun? If you can stand                 what the light inside the darkness does                  to your eyes,                  watch them pause there for a moment:                  our champion, our grace, in that high noon                  that holds all the freshness of the morning.

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Love Field
DAVID RODERICK