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It's like a beach of clouds beyond the window, white waves lapping the blue skyline below. As close to the sun as any human can get, its rays reflect on the waves. Surfing through the sky on a swell of air current up so high, the only bird in flight, we fly. Propellers whirl— the airplane glides like an iron gull riding a rip curl. I sit in the safety of a pressurized cabin, seat belt tight across my hips, a prayer for safe travel upon my lips, eyes mesmerized by the atmosphere. The world looks so different from way up here. Closer to earth we glide, trinket homes and tiny towns dot the countryside. Man would never fly, skeptics once did dismiss. I wonder how two brothers one day, dreaming in a field of hay, could ever have imagined something like this.
C. Mae Waugh