Amid clouds claimed by no king,
my boy sketches the sky.
Below, Sweden slouches southward.
To the east, artillery barks at the wind.
In national archives, scholars amend
the long-told fiction of nations.
Flags snap to attention
as armies weep to their anthems.
Secretive stags dash across state lines.
Not even satellites see them.
Soon we will land in a country with a name,
borders, memorials, uncountable graves.
For now, we soar over unmapped waves
rumpling the surface of a patrolled sea.
Some vision spills from my son’s pencil.
His sky fits on an airplane napkin –
a patch of cloud-fold and light,
a miniature flag of peace.