Flight To Atlanta
We float together above the earth,
The clouds and I.
They form layers.
From above, they are fluffy white and pristine.
Below, dirty gray and flat.
A skim of flotsam that seeks a place to settle.
A sheet of marble.
Then changing to rows of cotton planted
Two on four. Ready to strip and bale.
The ground between shows shadows
That gallop like wild mustangs on the open plain.
They are the darker of the twins,
And remind of the limits of light and sky.
Yen and Yang, the balance.
Each an ink blot that would test Rorschach.
Now becoming forever white like
Deep and driven drifts of snow.
Or, white icing on an endless sheet of cake.
Small peaks are skillfully placed
By nature’s cleaver hand.
Towers of misty clouds climb above the rest
And become smoke from a fire
Or steam from a boiling pot.
Smoke signals.
Moving through the climbing vapor
Gives the ride a rattle and rumble
As driving on a country road.
Windows become foggy glasses that
Clear without a wipe.
The cloud ahead becomes an angry mountain
That towers above and darkens the ground below.
With admiration and respect,
We circle,,,and wait
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