it was that silvery streak at first. familiar to the earthly gods as
exhaust from a jet engine. that's the dynamo that obtains force by means
of exaggerated words, and with this force shrinks earth to habitable
size. it's a wonder and great. that streak, then, vested with the light
from the direct sun, glows silver, tho its nature really speaks of
water, steam and ice: /that/ alchemy. the glow is particular, tho not
rare. where this aeronautical express and the sun relate influences the
nature of that glow. a brief time, then the silver goes white and seems
less featured. still, that flight and conveyance occurs high, more than
17 feet high, more than 191 feet above me, even more than 1304.78 meters
away from earth itself and all the vertical pronouns ever imagined.
gosh, when we fall, we take forever. the clouds grab at us, the birds
flap for us, the jet engine screams a bloody lament (with textures of
great big noise, like you could change information). and then we too
become brilliantly, fit for sky and earth. it is crazy just holding that
stillness, as clouds inflate to vested interest and perhaps a war means
news again. surely, nothing can be more risky than ending all planes.
we'd have to bear the light ourselves, with clouds our only friends. we
can't do that, can we?
