The Day Roger Peterson Died

Waiting outside of Clear Lake, Iowa, a cornfield grew a crop of snow in February darkness. Four in a Beechcraft Bonanza were approaching, though only three matter. The fourth had a name but was nominal, merely a functionary necessary for the tragic occasion, to be forsaken afterward. And of the three, two mattered more than the third, who’s remembered now only by a silly nickname made still sillier by death. And of the two, only one truly counts these days, if that (or if anything does). Thrown from his thin body thrown itself through the cold, his famous frames somehow strayed for years, lost and unseen. They’re finally home in Lubbock now, under protective glass, their thick lenses gone. I’ve peered through them. There was nothing to see but years.