Before I even take off my suit—the sky! The sky! The sky!
It is gray and gold, darkening as the evening draws on. If I look straight up into the gauze, I see a patch of evening blue, rimmed with gold hanging above. There are gods and spirits there. There is so much there.
I have thought too often of late about what is on the ground. I have stopped to smell the roses on my way to work. I have looked for the beauty in my weedy overgrown lawn. I have rested upon my fondness for the hard-beaten grime of the sidewalks. I have not looked at the sky.
Love of the near and gritty is one thing. But the sky! The sky! The sky! To step into a small propeller plane and lift—be lifted. To bob and weave and spear through the space, so much empty, substantial space. Cool and gray and blue space—and gold resting on top, like the smile of your favorite just as she’s falling asleep.
Enough of this ground. Put me on a plane, a jumbo jet—instead of loving small things, I’ll love the way big things look small.
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