Lifted. Shot through with light. We board and are bored, sanded to an unimpressed state by these total tubes. Glint of this evolutionary peak literally peaks in the parabola of things witnessed in air above. Eyesight one of those peculiarly centered endeavors. Regardless, the bird is soaring. Mountains. Plains. Twisted highway. Rivers that carry all earth’s tears to a sea. We want to so badly to crawl safely from our exit row seat. The red emergency handle jutting from the door simply a soporific in these gray, year-end months. We’d go down believing we were survived by our legend ala D.B. Cooper. Wind rushing by at 600 m.p.h and all we can do is wish for another drink or love with the becoming rarer sexy stew. We parade ourselves through gates and probes and scans all to get where we were already going. But sometimes, the plane is empty; light twinkles far beneath reminding you you are where you are; a hand is held as the great engines whisper their sucking noise of sleep.