You have to bear, first, the lineup of the runway, that sloth crawl
toward a moment when the stretch empties and the voice in the booth
says, Go. Then, the brief terror of momentum, all
torque and speed and wings climbing invisible air before it’s smooth
again. Which leads you to that long and liminal plateau, the non-space
where you hover above filmy clouds and dim landscapes and ideas
of no origin or trajectory, and you must sit there, waiting, as the turbines race.
But this is when a certain longing ripens, blooming quietly as the plane arrows
on. You feel it when a bump hits, something in your heart kicking in, the desire
to live so magnificent you reach toward the window and whisper, Higher.