We are all experts in risk assessment now

veritable authorities in hedging
our bets after gauging severity
against hazard in a matrix of
hypervigilance spurred by

pandemic, insurrection, school
shootings, terrorism, and
normal events like driving in
snowstorms or raising teens

which is why it is such a relief
to be flying on July Fourth eve so
I can watch fireworks without
their startling noise. Taking off

in Detroit en route to Traverse
City: silent glittery bursts peaking
above runway fences and then,
from the air, dotting the darkness

over tiny lakes, across fields,
on tightly packed blocks of
tract houses. I call the flight
attendant over to see through

my porthole of a window small
shimmering explosions on mute
lighting up pockets of land and
night sky like comets or disco

strobes because the jump seat
is windowless and the fireworks
from up here are actually wondrous
without the deleterious booms

or sharp whistling sounds that
give pets and kids anxiety attacks.
Our first Independence Day as
parents we lived (no joke) on

Independence Avenue and no one
warned us that our neighborhood
turned into a sonic war zone encased
in thick smoke, bangs constant

from illegal displays shot off
in every Southeast DC alleyway
but the baby slept through it
miraculously and without distress.

If I promised you from up here
that our bifurcated country is
maybe not totally fucked—that
with every golden willow or pink

peony or crackle star with its
tendrils of light you might forget
about relentless news cycles
or threats to democracy—

that it’s still possible to
have faith in this spectacle
of independence, would you
believe me?