Contrails

The car hurtles eastward on a clear, early morning.
On the periphery of my vision, the fields along the highway
have seemed shadowy, ephemeral.
The light beginning to spill over the distant horizon
reveals the nocturnal fog, which obscures

the details of the still blanketed landscape,

its tendrils extending their way overhead.
Bit by gradual bit, the sky grows slightly brighter.
Before long I'll need to protect my vision from the
glare of the morning sun's full glory.
For now, the vapor trails of a half-dozen jetliners
are the brightest spots in my field of view,
reflecting the sun's light from beyond the horizon,
giving testimony to its presence and power
more boldly than any solid object in sight.
These gleaming commas in the sky
encourage me to wait upon the promised day to come.
They overpoweringly pierce through the wisps above me,
like a promise of hope that eludes me,
enshrouded in my fog of doubt and self-judgment.