My first memory of flight: hands at the glass, believing myself
the instrument of wings, conductor of all clouds, the sole architect of sky.
I forgot my place on earth, my inescapable gravity, felt only the engine
rumble my bones and stir awake the sleeping pilot within, and I lifted us all
into a blue and beautiful uncertainty. Now, of course, the spell’s been broken,
but sometimes, I think it’s not freedom we want as much as its suggestion.
A hint of expanse instead of a mapless stretch we fear would stop our tracks.
We opt for practice runs, a streamlined, simulated trip
instead of the real, lumpy thing, and call this “safety” even though the rides run
flat. But the window keeps us from our wilderness. Not just out, but in.