The wings seem scarcely large enough to support us. At times the wing tips disappear into the mist and haze and I wonder if they are still even there. Moving in and out of cloud banks, has a similarity to opening and closing the curtains in a strange hotel.
After climbing above the translucent haze, the vision is as startling as it is simple. Floating in a sea of cerulean wash, the only thing that you can see, is the view above the clouds.
We lifted off from New York at a quarter to nine. Buildings and houses, rivers and signs. Now entrusting in the frail, elusive laws of gravity and dynamics we climb, ever higher.
I can only imagine the endless dreams I have had driving across endless roads and byways wondering about the thousands of faces sleeping in flight above. What I wouldn’t give to back on the ground, to be near you, not up here on the anvil as the hammer sits waiting to fall.