Journeys

We plan, organize, gather and pack, we fly - what liberty is this - to fly like a weapon on the edge of heaven. Having no power to do it ourselves we trust security, the silver whirligig, and the immutable laws of thrust and lift. Looking down at clouds, near the speed of sound “Yes, I’ll have the pretzels, please, and a sprite.” aviating thru the night, a few silent, blinking lights wedged up in the stars to those stuck in slow cars. We land with a bump, and reverse engine thrust, remaining in our seats until signs are revealed we then become the many-headed impatience to exit, to rush - for the baggage we trust made the journey with us. Oh, quick, grab a cab, catch a bus The grumpy, disheveled six of us we weary travelers thus were returned from vacation, to a near dawn New Haven.