Though I know it happens thousands of time everyday airplane flight always seems miraculous, and I love nearly everything about it. Going through goofy security procedures, engaging in people watching, language and accent discernment, napping uncomfortably in plane seats, (though admittedly I hate airport food), waiting on the tarmac, all for that moment of lift when a huge can of metal becomes airborne and the world below drops away to toy village, then ant farm, then abstract surface marked with patches of developed land, squiggles of forest and river, and cities shaped like twinkling stars exploding ever outwards. Sometimes all of it disappears beneath a world of clouds, which comes to resemble traveling on another planet of white, grey, blues, tinged with pink. Then as the plane lands, subtle textures of topography become more apparent: the forests separate into areas of closely space green lines of cultivated pines and irregularly colored wild trees, new suburbs with their shiny cookie cutter homes abut old farmland, the bare prints of old farm houses and barns remain and their driveways truncate to nowhere. Old property lines are marked by old growth sometimes cut in two by newer roads. Reading the land this way is seeing the layers upon layers of history, so little is left unmarked by us. Someday I continually promise myself, I will do a series based on the designs found in aerial photography.
The reason for flight? Last week Tommy, my brother-in-law and I flew to