From above

DCA to SJC

Below me

rippling lands push north

and beyond to the west

the sun hangs above

the unseen sea, covered

with its cotton robe

 

I am in love with  the sun.

Land is the myth.

Sky and sun

are all that is known.

 

SJC to DCA

In this flying box

I can close the window

and live in the mundane.

Beige walls, scratchy seats.

My eyelids close heavily

and the hours fly by.

 

Open lids, open shades.

We move homeward.

A brief rainbow  hangs

in midair and I can only

imagine what it looks like

from the ground.

 

 

 

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