At a hundred fifty feet, I’m comfortable as in a living room chair. Then it gets harder—the world shrinking to a map gaped at from an airplane window; the girder’s shadow a wing. The wind shrieks, as turbulent as a god, more playful than angry. Like my father’s ghost, stepping across the frame behind me in his red high-top Chuck Taylors, long gray hair streaming.
how narrow the beam
that holds our firmament