Half the time I couldn’t tell if the baby across from me was laughing or crying — our two greatest natural instincts occasionally confused — she liked this, she didn’t like this.
There wasn’t much snow yet over those circular farm scapes with their dried out vinyl grooves of irrigation, but there was a winter noise on the grounds below.
But still, when I looked out the window, some small mountain range meeting the prairie farmland of Kansas, I said very quietly to myself, “Holy Smokes, that’s beautiful,” some version of the third greatest instinct.
Later, head pressed against the window again, the great duet of jet engines against the growling of the young sapien as of yet incapable of equalizing the ear, an electric lighted system below, like arterial circuits confining human bandwidth, all quite so big and we are so small and yet still moveable.
You start with nothing and eventually everything else happens — urban architecture, festivals, the sham-wo.
Twinkling like peternpan fiber optics, inked sunset too early, I’m afraid of what I need to imagine will be a good experience after landing. Familiar and new in simultaneity.
A third season of a fourth context.