Sense of Place. Movement.
I woke up in the aisle seat to the sensation of the descent
—at once falling and lifting.
Over shoulders I could see trees. Tall, dark pines. Then navy ink water.
Our plane slid out over the inlet and banked, pushing me into the chair.
The world rotated. The landscape rose and closed fingers around us.
We straightened and the familiar sounds of landing filled the cabin.
Metal movement and human shuffling.
Then, the silence that seems to end every journey.
The white noise of rushing air,
hollow like the oboe’s reed.
