The city still pulsing from the morning, the 757 sits idle for me to collect my thoughts. A mad rush to make it through the gate, my mind encompasses all of it with marvelous ease. Though I’ll soon enter the gravity well of a very difficult retreat, I could just as well waver and disappear in the flow. What boundary have I crossed?
Blast down the runway, the trembling ground is lost – the land falls away, the ocean tilts forever to the horizon – ragged coastlines, islands, reservoirs, spiraling developments, crumbling mountains east to the desert.
Houston, Texas 55° heatwave chasing corridors like a funnel down through ever smaller corridors to a tiny aircraft, the abyss of flying. Somewhere over the Sabine pass Lake Charles breaks like a field of cane left to its own. Down beneath the sharp blades the insects walk their beat.
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