Ceridwen Hall airborne


I wait, for now untroubled by the computer that navigates and steers, the pilot who merely watches a stream of numbers representing a map and makes the occasional pronouncement about scenery and weather. We are held aloft. Let the plane soar unfathomable, more enclosure than vehicle, an idea the engine-sound lulls and obscures. Two passengers in the row ahead watch television; Obama and earlier presidents stand at a podium and speak mutely. The seatbelt sign chimes off and on. Turbulence arises, diminishes. I attempt to read, then to warn myself: home is never quite how one left it. Our ears cloud and bloom. We surrender empty wrappers, are reminded of our freedom to use electronic devices while taxiing, to summon relatives. But first, a near rumble as wheels unfold, a sunset view of the highway and the winter grass beside it

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