As we fly over the Blue Ridge Mountains I scrutinize the horizon for a speck of anything familiar, recognizable.
I feel like I can see for days. It’s so clear, merely misty as the light dew which settled on us Saturday night while we watched people
slowly filter out of the barn and we found our loves around the fire.
The plane flies North, the mist becomes thicker, more textured, less wispy.
From up here, I see merely reflective spots where civilization should be. I see a huge desert, although instead of sand, only white
as far as I can see, patterned just as the sea and wind pattern dunes. And now, now the white entertains highlights of amber and
low-lights of Carolina blue and I miss North Carolina already.
The amber, oh!
The golden light creates this illusion of majesty, subtly convincing us that the layer of fluff beneath would be fortified were we to
choose to subject it to weight. The color continues to fade out of the sky and into the clouds, or at least it seems as such.
I silently will time to stop and suspend me neither here nor there.