Aloft

I am certain the poets could more readily describe what it is I feel and see when aloft and flying over the world. At the moment I write this, I am 34,000 feet above the fields and farms of South Dakota, gazing down upon the checkerboard colors of greens, tans, browns and a vague reddish shading here and there.

In the distance is a thunderhead, looking light and puffy from above, though its dark shadow likely portends some drizzle down below. The ground in this part of the country is saturated after weeks of torrential rain. I've just left Minneapolis, where violent storms struck every night, waking me at 2:30, 3:00 in the morning with rumbles and flashes as if some disoriented band of paparazzi had found themselves  on the Red Carpet.

But here, over the plains, it's calm and serene. Sunlit, if even for a single day.

The view from up here is why I enjoy travel. It's a chance to look down and see things from a neutral level. No politics, no borders, no traffic. No noises of the city, no arguing or loud voices. No confusion. Only a steady buzz of airliner white noise and the occasional clack of the service cart.

Soothing.